Cognates of Heaven
by Sythe
Summary: Fleeing from the chantry and her templars, Hawke led her apostates to Middle Earth, straight to the heart of Mordor. The history of the land changes with the coming of a new power. War, politics, and improbable romance. AU. Elrondxf!bloodmageHawke.
1. Chapter 1

_**Cognates of Heaven**_

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Dragon Age, LOTR, the Silmarillions, the Unfinished Tales, and other published and un-published works of Tolkien. Also, many thanks to the essays of the Silmarillion Writer's Guild and the essay Warm Beds Are Good for giving me a better understanding of Tolkien's works.

A note to the canatics/purists among us. Respect. Not Worship.

A/N: Default female Hawke using blood magic, force magic, and arcane magic. Also, Hawke comes in diplomatic flavor with healthy sprinkles of troll!Hawke and fisticuff!Hawke.

**Chapter 1:** In Which Strange Things Happen in the Council of Elrond

* * *

On the first day of arrival in this new world, there was little time to make heads or tails of what was happening to Hawke and her brood of runaway apostates. There was the chaos. Expected, for one did not tear open the fabric of the universe, hop into a new one, and expect to wake up smelling the same old Antivan coffee.

The orcs, on the other hand, weren't. Ugly as the blighted creatures, yet thankfully of a far smaller kind than then strain they had in Thedas. Her brood of apostates made quick work of them, raining fireballs and blizzards and tearing open the head of the tower in which they stood as Hawke's barrier stood between them and the creature's brute force.

This was a new land, a strange land, of this she knew without doubt as she stared up at the open and unfamiliar skyscape. And the magic in this world… there was no word for it. It was everywhere, inundating almost to the point of choking with its abundance.

There was no veil here. She could feel the spirits walk the land freely. There was magic in the earth, in the air, in the water, in the very breaths they took. Even the language that oozed forth from the orc's mouth rang with innate magic.

"By the Maker, we are in the promised land!" One of her brethren screamed joyously as he ran beside her down the stairs and towards freedom. They all ran, tearing down dank stone halls and stairs, squealing like little children, spurred on by the flood of magic bursting though their bodies and the inviting sweetness of freedom… freedom at last… from the oppressive rule of the chantry and her templars, freedom from the stigma of simply being born a mage.

Then the dragons came, swooping down from a blood red sky. Then the Nazgul, though at the time Hawke knew not of them by that name. Then more orcs, armies of orcs, legions of orcs… seas… far more than her little band of apostates and their suddenly super magic can handle.

And at last and above them all, a voice within their heads introducing itself as…

… _Sauron…_

… and informed them, with the inanity of Orleasian nobles discussing cheeses made from elf tears, feather boas and the weather, that they were in its home, illegally. That the name of its home was Barad Dur of Mordor, the land of Shadows, and that it would require payment from this transgression.

They put up a fight, calling up fire, ice and storms to their defense, calling forth the forbidden power of the blood in their veins, and still, at the end of the first day there was only darkness for them.

On the second day, they were clasped in chains. Freedom. So close. So sweet. So unattainable.

On the third day, Sauron, curious of their magic, opened one of them and what it found put a smile in its voice and terror in their hearts.

On the fourth day, Hawke broke free of her chains, fought Sauron almost to a standstill and was recaptured.

On the fifth day, Sauron took away the pregnant women among them.

On the sixth day, they can hear the screams.

On the seventh day, Sauron brought one back. She was no longer mage, no longer woman, no longer human.

On the eighth day, Hawke broke free again but her recapture this time was far swifter.

On the ninth, Sauron chained her on the height of Barad Dur below where its eye once was and had its chiefs of Nazgul patrol her prison. In the night, it stayed with her until she slept. From then, she could no longer count. Time passed without meaning, counted only in the nights where they, her and it, coupled violently in her mindscape. Sometimes, it showed her visions of what it was… would… create from her fellow mages. Sometimes, it sang to her in the language that it called the Black Speech and the song that only she could hear was one of storms and fire and worlds rendered undone. And sometimes, it crooned to her with the voice of a lover of wonders that they could create together if she would just…

…_give in_…

The days after were unimportant. Hawke spent more time asleep than awake, locked in the shadows of the dark land and in battle with its dark lord… until the day she discovered a secret within Barad-dur.

There was a spy among Sauron's ranks.

A mere fly that hid in her hair before whispering his introduction. "I am called Morinehtar, the blue wizard, and I am here to help you."

The next important thing to happen was many nights after, on a day when she know the first friend she had made in this nightmarish world would die. Her signal was the explosion that rocked the foundation of Barad-dur itself. At once, she felt the iron grip of Sauron and his Nazgul slipped from her and her magic was free once more. The chains binding her to the wall of her prison disintegrated with a single thought. She dropped to the floor and lay there panting.

The realities of the world returned to her like a river bursting from a broken dam. The floor was cold, her body hard, the air putrid. She tried to stand only to fall on her face. She did the next best thing she could. She crawled on the floor, slowly, painfully, inch by inch forcing her long abandoned body to answer its master once more.

She could hear the shouts of Morinehtar the Blue somewhere down below, answered by the roars of the Nazgul. He would die, very soon, to buy her time. Hawke brought up her fist and smashed it down the floor. Her body had been rendered nearly invalid under Sauron's eye but her magic had never been stronger, not even when she stood, in her physical prime, to challenge the Arishok or Corypheus.

The ground blew up in hundreds of pieces under her fist. Some hit her hands and drew blood. Good. She licked her cracking dry lips and summoned the darkest art she had ever mastered. Her blood slid from the wounds on her hands, trickling down her fingers like red vines growing until she was lying in a pool of her own blood.

She knew almost nothing about this world. Even Morinehtar who had been with her constantly for a while now hadn't told her more than a handful of facts of this land for he himself was hiding from Sauron's eye. But here was the one fact that mattered.

The enemies of Sauron walked this land, freely, and it was to these people that she must send a plea. For help.

But what a plea it must be. It was clear from the little Morinehtar told her, these people, whoever they were, did not speak her language. And Hawke, in turn, did not speak theirs. The message she must send, then, must be of such power that it would go beyond the language barrier, just as Morinehtar and Sauron had done when they spoke into her mind itself. She must somehow ask help from these people without a word from her mouth.

Mind-speak was out of her ability, but, there was something else she could do.

She held up a small piece of rock, the very one that had come out of the floor. She squeezed it with both hands, concentrating all her magic into this delicate task. More than ever, she understood that this was the single most important thing she had ever done in her life. If she failed here, they would all bow to Sauron's will, becoming things worse than abominations. She, Marian Hawke, and her flock of runaway apostates.

Little by little, the blood pool stilled, then grew smaller as thin tendrils of blood made their way into the rock in her hands, bringing with them Hawke's memories.

A message for her people, spoken in a language that would go beyond mortal barriers. Hawke poured herself into the little rock, delicately arranging each memory. Who they were. Who she was. Why they were here, in this forsaken land, and the folly that cursed their journey.

She sent the rock flying out of Barad-dur with the last of her strength just in time to hear Morinehtar the Blue's death rending in her mind.

* * *

"_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_."

Elrond rolled his fingers over the slope of his temples, trying to chase away the headache that came with every uttering of the foul thing that was called the Black Speech.

"Never before has any voice utter the words of that tongue here in Imladris." He bit out none too gently at the particular Maia who insisted on giving him the worst of headaches at times.

"I do not ask for pardon, master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West."

The _worst_ of headaches of all times. But it seemed not even that could deter Boromir of Gondor. Before the last of the thunders summoned by the ring spell had rolled off the hills of Hilthaeglir, the Gondorian warrior had shot up from his seat once more.

"That is a gift… a gift to the foes of Mordor." He paced a circle around the stand on which Frodo Baggins had placed the One Ring, eyes dancing wildly on the faces of the council attendees. "Why not use this ring? Long has my father, the steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people, are your lands kept safe. Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him."

And before Elrond could utilize the intimidating power of his eyebrows, he had already had a situation on hand. One by one, Aragorn, followed by the son of Thranduil rose to argue against Boromir's demand. Elrond shot Gandalf a look. _There. You see what you have done? Dark spells of Mordor and easy-to-rile human younglings do not constitute a peaceful council._

Across from him, Boromir pelted out words like he was hurling stones at Aragorn. "Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king." Just to make sure he got the message across, he threw in a glare to make his point.

"Aragorn is right, we cannot use it." Gandalf contributed.

"You have only one choice." Elrond rose from his seat, fully intending on steering the council back to its original purpose. "The ring must be destroyed…"

Much to Elrond's surprise. Boromir stirred in his seat.

"Such an easy thing to say…"

_Eru! Was he too forced to recite the spell of the One Ring so that this Gondorian would listen?_ Elrond allowed himself a split second of annoyance but the second passed and he was his own master once more. He had lived far too many years to let himself be pulled into arguments with young hotheaded warriors. He let the Gondorian assume the stage, calmly waiting to listen to what he had to say.

"… I beg your pardon, master Elrond, for I bring dark tidings from Gondor. Osgiliath has fallen."

"The ruined city?"

Boromir nodded. "Osgiliath, once the capital of Gondor. Now it lies in ruins, the result of too many raids of Sauron's forces. For years, the Gondorian army has used it as an outpost for our patrols. Ogsiliath is the closest Gondor structure to the Black Gate and the land behind it."

"Well… surely an in between fort such as it must have changed hands many times. This is hardly the age of the Watchful Peace anymore."

"You are right, master Dwarf. But Osgiliath will change hands no more, for Osgiliath is gone… razed to the ground. The land where it once stood is barren. Not even insects live there. Not even grass. It is as though the life itself was sucked from the land. And the men stationed there…" A shadow passed Boromir's face and he was suddenly void of the bravado he had earlier. His shoulders drooped and he seemed smaller than he was. "Mordor has given birth to a new terror, one far more powerful than the Nazgul, and this thing… it stalked the shadows of Minas Morgul."

Boromir had the council's attention at 'Nazgul', but Elrond could see the reactions veering wildly to different directions. Glorfindel eyed him worriedly while Gloin of Dain said disbelievingly.

"Surely you jest. The Ringwraiths are Sauron's generals. What else could be above them but Sauron himself?"

"Have you ever seen a man sucked dry of his blood before, master Dwarf?"

The King under the mountain went quite.

"I have known the Nazguls to be unkillable, unliving, untiring creatures that can inflict incurable wounds. Yet even they were men once and only as dangerous as the reach of their Mordor-forged swords. But in all my years I have never seen things that could command the dead to take up the swords and fight for them. I have seen with my eyes the bodies of my kinsman forced back to the battleground against their own brothers. If it is of Sauron's power, then it is one never witnessed by Minas Tirith before…" Boromir's gaze rested heavily on Gandalf. "… or have Mandos forsaken us?"

An air of disquiet enveloped the garden where the council was held. Elrond glanced at Gandalf and saw not surprise on the wizard's face but… recognition. Interesting… and worrying. Gandalf knew something, but he had not yet breathed a word to him? Why? The Lord of Rivendell resolved to have a long word in private with the Maia the minute this council was over. For now, the son of Gondor had his full attention.

Boromir stood in the center of the council, facing him. He had his hand in his breast pocket. "The truth is, master Elrond, I have come here to ask for help…" From the corner of his eyes, Elrond saw a flash of surprise naked on the face of his chief advisor.

Proud Gondor, asking for help?

"… I have come to ask for help, and for the answer to a riddle. Orcs, trolls, and Nazguls we could fend off with our swords and our walls, but Minas Tirith has no hope of combating these black sorcery. Minas Tirith is hard pressed for allies and for counsels in these times." He paused for a second, struggling to put together words to describe an even he could barely understand. "Two years ago, something happened in Mordor. We observed it from the heights of Minas Tirith. We called it the nine days of Calamity."

"Nine days of Calamity?"

Nine? Elrond echoed in his head. A magical number. Nine Rings. Nine Nazgul. A nicely correspondening nine walkers he and Gandalf was planning. He leaned forward, curious to hear what came next.

"On the first day of Calamity, we saw the tower of Barad-dur torn into two…" Gasp broke out from various members of the council, accompanied by a few breathy 'impossible'. Barad-dur was wrought from Sauron himself. Even the might of the combined army of elves, men and dwarves in the Last Alliance couldn't tear it down three thousand years ago. Elrond held out a hand, keeping the disbelievers in check. This he had to hear. "… we could scarcely believe our eyes, yet every soldier upon the top of Minas Tirith would swear in his father and his grandfather's names that they saw a battle such as we had never seen waged within the heart of Mordor. Fire rained from the skies, followed by blizzards. The earth split itself. Lightning danced on the ground. We saw orcs by the thousands lifted up to the skies and torn to smithereens, bathing the land with their black blood."

A hint of hesitation crawled across Boromir's face and he struggled for a second. "… then we saw… we saw the eye of Sauron disappear… fizzle out… as if extinguished by a great invisible hand."

If there had been murmurs of disbelief in the mention of a battered Barad-dur, then the council was now in uproars. Elrond fought to keep the calm in the garden and the shock off his face.

"Why have we not heard of this? News of this magnitude should have spread like wild-fire." Aragorn pressed.

"… because we could scarcely believe it ourselves." Boromir defended. "We thought we had dreamed, or that the enemy had put us under their foul sorcery. We waited, petrified with uncertainty. Many of us thought the Dark Age had passed and true peace had come at last. Yet many more was certain that the enemies were nigh at our doors, lying in wait for the moment we let down our guard." His eyes grew dark. "Perhaps we still are under Sauron's sorcery."

"Perhaps you are indeed…" A quick look from Elrond stopped Galdor of the Grey Havens right there.

"Do continue, Boromir."

"Of course… of course…" Boromir murmured absentmindedly. "Well… we waited. There was a great silence on the second and third day. From the tower, we saw orc corpses litter the soil of Mordor, and the eye of Sauron still absent. The land of shadows was quiet as death. Many spoke of hope in those two days. Perhaps Sauron was really dead after all. But on the fourth day, the battle resumed, this one no smaller than the first. Silence again on the fifth day. On the sixth and seventh days, we could hear terrible screams and some could see the eye of Sauron fizzling on the ruins of Barad-dur. On the eighth day, yet another battle took place. By then, there were words among the learned folk of Minas Tirith. It was clear, they said, that what we had witnessed was the clash of two powerful forces. One was obviously Sauron, but who was the other?"

Who was the other indeed? A force powerful enough to openly contest with Sauron, powerful enough to render the physical manifestation of Sauron's military might undone. Not even the Istari could boast of such feat. Not that Elrond knew of anyway. The council waited on bated breaths for what came next. This was proving to be an eventful meeting.

"There were many speculations. Some said the Valar was finally done with waiting and had brought their heavenly wrath upon Sauron. Some said the Istari. News had trickled in from Rhovanion and Dagorlad that the Blue Wizards had built up rebellions against Sauron deep in the East. These are the most popular theories. Then… the ninth day came." Boromir's voice, usually a booming baritone, suddenly dropped to a tired mutter. "We saw the tower of Barad-dur rebuilt within a single day and the fire of Sauron's eye alit once more. And afterward, silence. We could all feel a new darkness creep the land. And we talked no more of our previous speculations for we all fear the truth."

For a few heart beats, silence reigned in the Council. A uniform expression of grimness descended on the faces of those who sat in the garden of Imladris as the depth of the situation sank in. When it passed, Boromir brought out his hand from his breast pocket and held up a velvet pouch for all to see.

"But that is not all. A year ago, this was sent to us from the Black Gate."

"You would bring an artifact of Mordor to our household? You have obviously done a fool's errand." Erestor hissed the second these words left the Gondorian's mouth. It was easy to see he was not alone in his reaction. Many in the Council shared his opinion, their expressions varying wildly from merely alarmed to downright furious. It was one thing to bring the One Ring to Imladris, the Ring at least was a known entity. Elrond, at least, knew to guard his heart and those of his households against its seduction. This dark artifact, on the other hand, was a complete unknown, and if half the things Boromir said was true, twice as dangerous.

"The very same artifact that has stayed in Minas Tirith for half a year without incidence. Yes. Yes, I would." Boromir parried, completely unfazed. "Beg your pardon, sir, but if Minas Tirith could house it for months and still standing, then you will excuse me if I thought Imladris would be fine with only a few weeks." Then he bent down in front of the stand where they put the One Ring and with a swift move, released the bind on the velvet pouch. Out rolled a black thing.

A small rock the size of a toe. A pebble of ebony. As dark and uncouth as the most ordinary mine coal with only a few streaks of red to signify the possibility that it was, indeed, not a thing to be thrown away with nary a thought. It was laughable, almost offensive, to see such a thing put beside the One Ring. Yet even when Elrond contemplated this, he felt a pull, tiny, almost insignificant but a pull nonetheless, on his mind. His ring, Vilya, warmed around his finger in acknowledgement of its magical brethren.

It was then that a strange thing happened.

There was silence in the garden, and not the kind that came with tense anticipation or thoughtfulness either but something else, something… unnatural. With a building sense of unease, Elrond noted the suddenly glazed expressions on the Council member's faces. Distantly, he heard Boromir drone on.

"It was brought to us by orcs of all things. I saw with my very own eyes, a band of orcs running straight for the gates of Minas Tirith, leaving a trail of black blood behind them. We shot them down from the tower, but… alas… here is a riddle. Once we examined their corpses, we realized they had long been dead by the time they reached our fair city…"

"You should… pick it up, Gandalf." Frodo Baggins of the Shire suddenly cut in, interrupting Boromir in the middle of his babbling. Elrond blinked, for a second not believing he'd heard correctly. He had not thought the Hobbits lacking an acceptable amount of rational thinking. Then he noticed the dazed look on the young Hobbit's face. Anxiety spiked for a second time in his chest. The wizard was sure to put aside the Hobbit's urging but it was quickly becoming apparent that the One Ring wasn't alone in its power of seduction. He made to put a stop to this collective madness but before he could so much as open his mouth, something impossible happened.

Gandalf stirred where he sat, his gaze intent on … not the Ring… but the black stone from Mordor. "Yes… It obviously bears a message from its maker. And I should…" Before Elrond's incredulous eyes, he rose with speed unexpected for his age and made to pick up the rock of Mordor.

If there were doubts in Elrond's mind of the rock's black sorcery, they were all gone in an instant. He jumped from his seat. "Gandalf!" His hands shot out, the left one seizing Gandalf's hand before it could reach its destination, the right striking the stone, fully intending on knocking it off the stand and away from the bewitched wizard.

Pain flared from his hand where he made contact with the black rock, bone deep and burning from his ring finger. Elrond had only seconds to realize he'd made a terrible mistake. The pain from his hand deepened, blooming white flowers in his vision. In the next second, three things happened at once.

With a keening whine, Vilya flew off his finger, unable to bear the full brunt of a magical attack of such magnitude.

He heard a cry from his chief advisor, Erestor, and dimly realized that whatever hold the black rock had on the council was gone.

A white light pierced his mental barrier, flooding his mind with foreign images.

A land with blood red skies. A burning tower. A woman stood in front of the fire, a blonde man next to her. The dancing flame casted shadows and light in stark contrast on their entwined hands. The image passed, replaced by a different one. The same woman leading a group of humans. They ran, through deep forest and high mountains, chased by other men in armors. No, not human, sorcerers. Elrond corrected as the images warped in his mind, showing men and women performing deeds he had thought only performed by the Valar. The earth moved for them. Fire and ice bent to their will. The trees trembled and danced to their tunes. And more… much more as one by one the images showed him an alien magic he had not thought possible.

He was wrong, he realized, for the things these humans could do was nothing at all like the Valar. Whereas the magic of Valinor was a gentle and patient hand guiding them to the right direction, theirs was a thing of total utilitarian. There was no beauty in this alien magic, no elegance. This was a magic that asked total obedience and brooked no defiance from its subjects. A tyranny of all things magical, it obeyed no rules of nature.

Elrond's heart chilled at the thought. It was no wonder then, that even Vilya, the strongest of the three, was forced to kneel before this foreign tyrant.

More images came, locking Elrond's mind in temporary limbo. Distantly he could hear the panic rising in his Council but as long as this magic had hold of him, there was nothing he could do.

He saw the woman again, saw her blue gray eyes lock into his as she led her people onward, running from their ever-present armored pursuers. He could see their goal, a mirror abandoned in a nameless wasteland deep in a nameless black wood.

_Eluvian_. A voice whispered in his head.

He saw the woman and her flock of wizards circling the mirror, twittering in their alien languages. There was hope in their faces, but also fear. They knew the mirror was their hope, but it could also be their doom. A ritual, interrupted. Enchantations cut in the middle. The armored pursuers had caught up to their quarry at last.

Elrond watched the fight that ensued, then the subsequent plummet. The woman erected a barrier around the mirror and pushed her flock through one by one. The blond man stood guard before the barrier until the last moment.

If the very first image that was forced into his mind had not convinced him, then here was the moment that wiped out all doubt. The gaze that transpired between them burned with an intensity that only existed in life-long lovers. There were no tears shed, nor words exchanged. The woman jumped through the mirror and left the man behind where he fought to protect his lady to the death.

Elrond had little time, and little incentive, to feel pity for them because the very next sequence of images opened up with a burning Mordor. The images were in chaos now, as though the mind behind them was forced under duress or was not sure of the events themselves. He witnessed the fights that came to be called 'The Nine Days' by Gondorians in jumbles of flashes and pictures. Lights and shadows danced in his vision and coalesced into the terror he knew as the one Dark Lord of Middle Earth…

… then they stopped, as suddenly as they had come. He found himself lying face down on the cold floor of his own garden.

The real world, no longer held back by magic, exploded around him. While Elrond spent hours in a world of lights and shadows, only a few seconds had passed in the real world.

"My lord…" He was helped up by a shaking Erestor, whose face was pale and bloodless. His hand was bleeding and there was a ring of burned skin where Vilya once sat. He followed the trail of blood to the black rock. His ring was harder to find and it took him a few minutes to discover it under a pot of lilies. It was warm to his touch when he picked it up. Little tendrils of smoke clung to it.

"It is diminished." Glorfindel observed. Two lifetimes and a Balrog slain, and he could not keep the shock off his voice. Elrond nodded wordlessly. One of the Elven three and it took only seconds of contact with a mere rock to weaken it. If that was not worthy testament to the power of this new… race of man, these magi… then he could find no others. He allowed himself a few seconds in quiet rumination before turning back to the waiting faces of his Council… only to find himself looking at Gandalf bending down to pick up the accursed rock of Mordor.

"Mithrandir!" In his anger and shock, he reverted back to Sindarin. Was one time a fool not enough? Or was the wizard still under the hold of foul magic? Was Elrond forced to give him a good kick in his backyard as he sometimes did to his rascal sons to knock him off this foolishness? But much to his surprise, Gandalf looked him in the eyes, and he could find no trace of either senility or magical possession there.

"Peace, Elrond." The wizard held out his hands in a placating gesture, showing the rock lying harmlessly in his palm. "It was intended to be used one time only. It has lost much of its power now."

Elrond's earlier suspicion came back full force at the wizard's statement. Gandalf knew something, and what he knew he had decided not to share with Elrond. Not until now. Elrond had a million questions in his head that he wanted to throw at the wizard, but he had more tact than that. This was neither the place nor time and discussing unknown magic out in the open was bound to be folly no matter how serious the cause was.

Yet, it seemed, however, that not all of his Council held this tact.

"You know of it, Gandalf?" A certain Hobbit had voiced his question before Elrond could call an end to the meeting. Well, at least he would get some answer now. Gandalf would not hide from this one hobbit.

"I… I wouldn't call it know. But I have heard of its maker. Yes." The wizard addressed the whole of the Council with his eyes. "It is wrought of blood and despair."

"You should never have brought it here." Said Erestor to Boromir, who cringed under the elf's glare.

"Boromir is not to blame, Erestor." The wizard admonished gently. "This is magic in its most primal and powerful form. Its maker ensured that whoever had hold of it would deliver it to the hands of a Maia. I daresay not even the mightiest of elf lords could ignore its invocation."

Gandalf's gaze was on him now. "It is called a shard of memory and is meant for a full-blooded Maia. Not even the eldest elf-born descendant of Melian could bear the full brunt of its message. You put yourself in harm needlessly Elrond."

Elf-born descendant of Melian. A fine-way to say half-blooded Maia. But half-blooded or no, Elrond had a bit more pride than to allow himself to be dressed down by Gandalf of all people in front of his own Council.

"Pick up your ring, Frodo. We end today. This meeting will continue tomorrow." He announced succinctly in a voice that allowed no arguments, then left Erestor tending to the other Council members. He headed straight for the gray wizard, eyes fully voicing what he did not say aloud.

You, me, and your secrets, Gandalf. Now.

**End chapter one.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Cognates of Heaven**_

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Dragon Age, LOTR, the Silmarillions, the Unfinished Tales, and other published and un-published works of Tolkien. Also, many thanks to the essays of the Silmarillion Writer's Guild and the essay Warm Beds Are Good for giving me a better understanding of Tolkien's works.

**Chapter 2:**** In which a letter changed the world**_**.**_

* * *

Somehow, despite all the bravado he had used to corner Gandalf, by the time Elrond reached his study, he was suddenly hit by a powerful premonition that this was one among the precious few Istari secrets that he did not want to hear. But by then, obviously, it was already too late.

He walked pass the threshold of his door without missing a beat despite the rotten feeling curling in his chest. Gandalf was one step after him, followed closely by Glorfindel who closed and locked the door behind him.

He turned back, observed the wizard carefully. "You are not smoking." He stated as he worked on bandaging his still bleeding hand.

"Would you like me to smoke?"

"No" He said between his teeth, squeezing his eyebrows for extra effect. It was no secret among those that dwelled in Imladris that the master of the Last Homely House on Middle Earth gave no encouragement to the gray wizard's revolting habit. However, if there was one thing Elrond knew for sure about Gandalf, then it would be that he liked smoking.

Gandalf smoked all the times. He smoked when he was happy. He smoked when he was bored and chewed on his pipe when he was at it. He smoked when he was angry… if he didn't have a sword on hand and there was nothing to strike at with. Elrond had spied him, on the few occasions that he had, asleep with his bedamned pipe stuck in his mouth. And even when he wasn't smoking, he would have that pipe on hand somewhere; either tucked to his belt beside his sword, or betwixt in his hand as he twirled it around as a father sometimes did his favorite child. The Valar must have blessed his Maia body with steel lungs, because if it were anything less, Elrond was sure that he would have died of lung failure long ago, wizard or not.

It was, therefore, a consequence of all those long years spent abhorring the wizard's habit that Elrond knew with absolute certainty that the few precious times Gandalf did not smoke while, for all intents and purposes Elrond's ceiling should already be fully covered with white smog, it meant something was _very_ wrong indeed.

"Are you quite alright?" Asked the wizard, gesturing at Elrond's hand.

"Please, Mithrandir, I have been in wars. And despite what the dwarves would like to say about lily-livered elf warriors, this is not going to kill me. Now…" He shared a look with Glorfindel who put himself between Mithrandir and the door. "… let's get back to the topic we should be talking about before you try to change the subject."

"I am merely voicing my concern, Elrond. The magic the maker of this stone wields…" He twirled the rock in his hand as if trying to make a point. "… is not something I can easily counter."

"And I too am merely voicing my concern over this new breed of sorcery that would give even a Maia cause to pause."

Elrond blinked, momentarily stunned at the tone that came hissing from his own mouth, lacing his words with a degree of emotions that seemed improper for an elf his age. The quiet that followed spoke volume of what was transpiring in the minds of two mildly bewildered elves and one very concerned wizard. Elrond gripped his wounded hands, now suddenly uncomfortable with the thoughts running in his head.

"The stone affects you, my friend." Said the wizard after what seemed like hours of silence. "More than you would like to admit."

Elrond eyed the splatters of blood on the sleeve of his shirt as though he hadn't heard a thing. His fingers were cold and numb and he could feel something alien growing from them, spreading slowly but surely through his very being. Beneath the weight of thousands of years of experience, he could feel something crawling in his gut, a terrible dread that he could not understand. Here was a son of Eldar, Maiar, and Hildor, forced to his knee before this strange magic.

"You did not bring the son of Denethor." He said when he finally managed to collect himself.

"You called an end to the Council, Elrond."

"Indeed I did. An end to the Council of the Ring… which, as far as I know, has absolutely nothing to do with this rock of Mordor. Or perhaps I am misinformed and you would like to correct me. You had but to ask, Gandalf. Boromir had every right as I to stand in this room and partake this conversation." He shared a look with Glorfindel, reading the same thought in the balrog slayer's face. Gandalf had, very deliberately, left the Gondorian out of this.

In response to this, the usually mellow expression on the wizard's face sharpened with intent. "It seems, my friend, that it is not I who dread this conversation but you."

Caught. Like a rat. Elrond gave a harsh laugh. He looked out the window of his study and saw Aragorn wander by down below, then he saw his daughter hot on the ranger's heels. The afternoon sun chased their running footsteps in dances of light and shadow and autumn leaves. His fools in love. Whatever shall he do to them?

When Elrond finally turned back to Gandalf, he knew with no doubt in his heart that whatever he was going to hear in the next few minutes would change everything he'd ever known. Forever.

"Speak your piece, Gandalf." He said.

"I will do better. I'd have you speak for me." With this, the wizard drew something from his pocket. A letter. Ordinary brown vellum. Slightly sodden and smeared with dirt and claw marks that told of a long and probably perilous journey.

He received the letter from Gandalf, holding it gingerly with his numb fingers. He pulled it open and started reading it out loud.

"My brothers of the Order,

I would have preferred our first correspondence since coming to Middle Earth to be of a lighter note, but I regret to say I bring dark tidings, for what else could bridge the gap between us East and West and demand that I brave the Dark Land to bring you this news."

He paused here, throwing Gandalf a dark look.

"The Blue wizards." Glorfindel stated without preamble. "We thought them lost to the Wild Peoples of the East. This, then, is the first missive from them." He joined Elrond, gazing intently at Gandalf. "This should have come here far earlier. Why was it kept from us?"

"I fear, my friend. I fear, and doubt. As you said, this is the first time in thousands of years they have ever tried to contact us, wizards of the West. It was delivered to my hands by one of Radaghast, likely he was the first to receive it through his animal friends. I had no idea whether this was the genuine article or another trickery of the enemies. And in light of the discovery of the Ring, I thought we had no time to spare the investigation. Only when Boromir brought forth his stone did I know for sure. Never the less, we can have our argument after. Please continue, Elrond"

"Something is coming." Elrond continued at the wizard's behest. "Something is coming and it sends out ripples that only us the magical could feel. I fear, my brothers, for both I and Morinehtar knew where the heart of the ripples lie, where the stone struck the water and sent out waves to our hearts. It is in the Dark Land. Something has come and it lies in the dominion of Sauron. We do not know what it is. We _must_ find out." He paused here for a second. Below the part he'd read, there was two finger's width worth of space and when the words resumed, it was in a different colored ink, obviously written sometimes after the introduction.

"We have found what 'it' is. No. Who 'they' are. One of our fortresses of the East fell to one of them. I and Morinehtar went there ourselves. It was called Hithliar and it was the foremost frontier we had built against Sauron's forces and allies of the East. For five hundred years it had withstood men and orcs alike, yet before our eyes we discovered it was felled in a single day, by a single mage."

Elrond paused again, stunned at this piece of news. A quick glance told him Glorfindel was in the same predicament.

"Not…" He picked up again after some seconds. "Not many who were there on that day survived… but the few who did told of impossible stories. They said the earth split apart and swallowed the walls whole, and that fireballs rained from the skies and pulverized the defending forces."

Fire from the skies. A sundered earth. The similarities with the Gondor's Nine Days of Calamity were staggering. Elrond was starting to see a pattern here, and the little that he could see until now was drawing a worrying picture.

"Yet as impossible as they seemed, stories like this became common within months in the land of the East. These are no mere conjurers of cheap tricks, but a force to be reckoned with, despite the fact that they are as mortal as every other children of Hildor. We found ourselves pushed and besieged on all fronts. It pains me to see our thousands years of work, creating havens and rebellions in what was once Sauron's monopoly of dominions, curtailed so quickly and brusquely. We fought, but we dared not pit our full power against this alien magic as the Valar instructed. And what strange magic it is. My brothers, if I allow myself this moment of clarity and honesty, I would say, though this magic is neither stronger nor weaker than ours, it is one that is unbound by all rules of Arda."

Elrond paused momentarily, silently digesting the blue wizard's observation. Unbound by all rules of Arda? "My brothers, you must wonder of what madness I am spouting. Perhaps the Blue wizards, you might think, isolated from their higher brethrens of the West have turned senile at last. But senile I am not, and this I will testify with my very fëa. The magic these strange mages wields is one capable of transgressing into the territory of Gods. And thus… if I dare a guess, I would not like to cross magic with them. My maiar-wrought body might survive their mortal ones, but I doubt my magic will their strange sorcery."

The tension in the room was palpable now. Elrond gripped the letter with both hands, feeling the nervous presence of Glorfindel at his back. "My brothers, I have questions the number of stars in the skies in my head whose answers I fear, yet it is these answers we must seek, or else all is doomed. In the second month since Hithliar, we laid a trap and found our answer at last. Six hundred good man for one of theirs."

Elrond swallowed thickly as he unrolled the parchment. The next part consisted of many crossed out paragraphs and smears of black ink, all telling proofs of the Blue Wizard's struggle to communicate his discovery.

"The truth is..." He picked up. "…they are not of this world."

"What?"

He ignored Glorfindel's incredulous stare, instead concentrating on the words of the letter.

"Deep within the mage's mind, we find our answer. The man is one among a group of self-exiled mages who came from a different world where a war between the magical and the unmagical was waged. Refusing to be used as tools of war, they followed their leader and escaped to our world looking for refuge in anonymity."

"And a great lot of good that did them." Gandalf commented, eyes faraway. "The poor fools. They jumped right into Sauron's home."

"As much as I fear the potential destruction they are capable of, I also found myself pitying them. They are a wretched people, whose powers simultaneously drown and elevate its wielders. The mage we captured is but a mere shade of his former self, bound to Sauron's will as he was, a mere flesh puppet victimized by his own magic. And he is not the only ones. Much to our horrors, we discovered that the magi, as a people, are preconditioned to be possessed and taken over by the likes of Sauron. In fact, it is this one horrifying and peculiar trait that was the corner stone of the war in their world. The unmagical understandably cannot tolerate a race whose weaker members so easily fall prey to demons and mean spirits alike."

"By Eru…" Glorfindel hissed. If Elrond wasn't already busy with the letter, he would have joined in with the balrog slayer. He recoiled at the very real possibility that Sauron now held possession of a small army of Black Istari.

"We debated on what to do."

"Debate? What is there to debate?" Glorfindel asked. In reply, Elrond read out the next part of the letter.

"You must have questions in your mind now, my brothers. What is there to debate? Indeed, if only what I've told you is the full extent of what we found, then our course here on, though wretched, would be clear to us. But that is not all, my brothers."

A great hush fell over Elrond's study, a nervous anticipation of the news to follow what they had just heard.

"In the deepest part of the man's mind, we found someone's presence there. Not Sauron… for it is his finger prints that were all over that abomination of a mind. Someone else. But… ah, let us not be hasty here for you need to understand one thing about the mages. Not all of them are weak in mind. Not all bowed to Sauron and the demons that preceded him. Despite our worst expectations, they are not simply a race of demon flesh in the making. To the strongest of them, demons bowed to in defeat. In fact, it is for this very reason that the mages rebelled against their unmagical cousins in demand of freedom. And here is the astonishment. The so called man-mage we caught turned out to be a mere child, one that has yet to pass 'the harrowing' ritual that separates those who can resist the call of evil and those that cannot. A mere child, skilled in the way of magic and bolstered by Sauron, and it took six hundred good men to take him down."

Elrond swallowed. He could see what the Blue Wizard was trying to see, though the wisdom of his words escaped Elrond. All he had written had, thus far, had only served to heighten the elf lord's misgivings of these magi.

"You must already guess what I am trying to say, though I shall not spell it out so soon for you. We discussed how we might fight against such adversaries. We, the wizards, were forbidden to pit our full powers against Sauron, as per the Valar. Though these people are not of Sauron, the destructive potential of their powers alone should give pause to us, those who wish to openly content with them. How else then shall we prepare our battles? By physical might, my friend. As I have mentioned, though their magic is strong, their bodies are mortal. They can be felled by the swords, pierced by the arrows, corrupted with poisons, overwhelmed with numbers. But I caution you, tread on that road; you will have to accept staggering numbers of losses on your forces. It is here that I will bring you, if not the good news then a different direction to this dilemma. There is another way to defeat these magi."

There was a slight scuffle as Glorfindel leaned forward, then reined himself in.

"There is another way." Elrond's voice slowed, his mind racing to swallow the next few sentences. "In the very heart of the Dark Land is chained the Champion of the Magi. It was her presence that we found in the pits of the child mage's mind, trying to protect what little human was left of him. She, alone, is both the salvation and doom of these magi. Salvation… for it is under her banner that the mages rallied. She is the single reason that our Eastern forces have not been flattened under their combined might. It is much to our surprise that we discovered the majority of the mages stood unbowed before Sauron. The 'Harrowed' they are called. It was the small number of 'Unharrowed' youngsters who terrorized our land these past months. A humble thing to know, wouldn't you agree?"

Humble? He would have gone for horrifying. A horrifying thing to know. "My brothers, my fellow Istari, the mere fact that Sauron has the Champion imprisoned in the heart of Barad-dur, the physical manifestation of his power and the place where he is strongest, should speak volumes to you already, but let me put it down in words for you, so there will be no misunderstanding between us and all those who will no doubt read this letter after us. We must not even allow an illusion of misunderstanding on these stakes."

The next sentence was written in red ink. Bloody letters on a cream canvas of vellum.

"As long as the Champion of the Magi stands unbowed before Sauron, the Dark Lord will be denied the full might of their power." Elrond recited, his words coming out heavy and slow under the weight of the Blue Wizard's declaration. "She is the pillar and the chain of the Magi both. Even now, she is locked in combat with the Dark Lord. Sauron dares not loosen his grip on her for he knows he treads on the edge of a blade that may either catapult him to height previously unknown or take his head in one fell swoop. Release her and you shall release the Magi. Destroy her, and through her blood link with them, you will have destroyed a whole magical people."

For a heartbeat, Elrond paused, breathing heavily through his mouth, suddenly exhausted.

"We cannot make this decision." He picked up again. "It must be you who choose. To save or to doom? That is the question whose answer you must seek. The East cannot make this choice. The East no longer has the strength to make this choice. My friends… I regret laying this burden on you, but I see no other way through which we shall find the light. Perhaps, if you choose wrongly, there shall be no light for us. Either way, my friends, here is the place where I bid you goodbye. Morinehtar shall be gone by tomorrow, yonder to the Dark Land, to the burning heart of Barad-dur. We shall try to find the Champion and through her establish a link to the Magi. I fear he will not return, but this is what we must do, what we can do at least. It is up to you whether you use that link to lead them to freedom… or strangle them to their death. Farewell, my friends. Choose well, my friends.

Rómestámo - Ithryn Luin – One of the Five"

Elrond put the letter down. He clasped his hand together, paused, took out a kerchief and rubbed the sweat off his fingers. He pulled a shaky breath in, shivering, laboring under an invisible weight. When he looked up, Glorfindel met his eyes quietly.

"My friend…" He said softly. "… will you also lay this choice at my feet?" He received no answer for his question. But of course, Glorfindel was sent to serve and protect, not to lead. So it was to Elrond the 'yae' or 'nae' go.

He turned to Gandalf, gaze sharpened to a pinprick point. "I see now why you did not take the son of Gondor to this meeting. You want something from us."

"Does it not gladden you then, my friend…" The wizard answered. "… that I agree to your point at last? That the race of Men, perhaps, does not yet have the strength to make this one choice? Would the Eldar then push this task on their younger brother and watch Men crumble in fear of this new unknown and reach not for the shields but the swords and the spears… and make a choice before they can comprehend what it truly is?"

"And my race is qualified?" Elrond very nearly exploded. "My race… whose days on Middle Earth are near the end. My people, who once walked this land freely, now huddle together for protection in a few pockets left of our former glory? We once ruled this land as God's avatars, now we are hard-pressed to protect our maidens from orcs and slave traders. How many great elven cities are still left on this land? Four. How many are the human's? I do not have enough stars in the skies to even begin counting. Is it to be elven blood that paves the road through this war the humans could have prevented years ago with Isildur? Six hundred elves for a Magi child. How many for a Magi Champion? Shall we then have Isengard at our back and Minas Morgul at our front? Shall we then chase after the One Ring and cater to this Rock both? My people should be safe under the protection of the Valar. Tell me, Gandalf, what is there to keep me in this forsaken land while I can peacefully sail for the West with the rest of my people? If it was human's hands that seed this disaster, why then do I need to stick out my neck for them?"

He staggered as the last word left his mouth in a huff. He sat down on a chair, feeling the years being wrung out from him. Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder in a show of support. The sounds outside flew in through the many windows of his study, tumbling with warm sunlight and a fragrant wind. The sounds of his people going about their everyday lives. Elf maiden's giggles carried in the breeze like jingling glass bells. The inviting scent of elven dinner and wine being prepared.

Gandalf's blue eyes met him in the cold silence of his study. He suddenly felt old and sick to the heart. He was considered young among the ranks of elven lords and rulers, but not young enough to think his spontaneous rant would deter the Gray Maia. He was but a stray leave in the face of the coming storm and he awaited the wizard's sword on his neck patiently.

"We have no choice, my friend." Said the wizard, his words delivered with the gentleness of a dagger through the heart. "None of us shall have a choice. What the Ithryn Luin never spoke of in his letter is the true heart of why the Magi were enslaved in their origin world. They killed their gods, Elrond. That is the Original Sin that condemned them."

Elrond stared at him, wide-eyed. "Theirs is a godless world… and so shall ours share the same fate if the Eldar spurn the making of this choice. Just as Saruman bred the Uruk-hai, Sauron too will attempt to breed a new generation of Dark Magi free of the Champion's influence. If he succeeds, not even Valinor will stand before the might of an army of Black Istari. Sail to the West now, and the only thing you will accomplish is to cement the black fate that will befall us all."

The silence afterwards was a dark and bottomless sea in which he drowned. Elrond collected himself piece by piece. He stood up, slowly, gently, as if he would break if he stood too fast.

"I understand." He said. "However, it is not my place to decide. Bring the words. This is the one choice all the Eldar will partake."

Gandalf nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. "I shall then go to prepare this announcement." He said as he turned to the door. A glance from Elrond sent Glorfindel trailing after the wizard.

Then he was left alone in the airy room of his study, with too many windows and too many sounds that echoed its empty heart, and the too heavy silence that persisted despite, or perhaps in spite of, all that noises. He was right after all. This was the day that he saw the letter that changed the world.

* * *

**End Chapter 2**

* * *

Writing Elrond is hard. He is, I think, one of the more human elf characters. It is hard work to balance him between the timeless wisdom of the elf and human vulnerability. I can only hope I do an adequate job of it.

Writing Middle-Earth-speak is hard work too. I was more used to the short and to-the-point gutsy style of modern literature. I hope I did not over-use the purple prose here.

Unbeta-ed. So sorry for the typos.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Cognates of Heaven**_

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Dragon Age, LOTR, the Silmarillions, the Unfinished Tales, and other published and un-published works of Tolkien. Also, many thanks to the essays of the Silmarillion Writer's Guild and the essay Warm Beds Are Good for giving me a better understanding of Tolkien's works.

**Chapter 3:**** In which a choice is made**

* * *

All it took was seven days for the madness to spread and take hold of his people. One for the news itself, and six for the implications to fully sink in. Not a pretty sight to behold. Not even from elves.

He belayed the champion's message for a day, staying up late in the night, listening to the incredible quiet of the last homely house on Middle Earth, his heart full of dread. In the evening before that, he'd held council with his most trusted advisers, discussing how to handle this new turn of events. That hadn't turned out well, but Elrond wasn't too heart-broken over that. He'd already passed the threshold where he still registered shock or alarm for the day.

In the morning after, before the sun rose, he dressed himself in his old work clothes and went out to his wife's garden. He did not know why he wanted to be there. He simply went. He stood amidst the trees and the hanging vines, looking up as the sun lumbered a slow, blinding ascent over the rolling hills of Hilthaeglir. The lights filled his eyes and for one moment he could not see. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath. He could hear the sounds of the garden whose back spilled out all the way into the heart of the forest. He smelled dews and fresh-sprouted grass and the ghost of moonlight just lifting off the trees to make place for the coming of daylight, and just for one second, a heartbeat of a second, he fancied _she_ was still here with him. His wife. His heart. His courage. Who left him for the land beyond the sea...

The next breath he took was long and laborious, shivering to the timbre of his trembling heart. He should not be here. He thought to himself, turning his back towards the sun. The light finally left his eyes, and once more he could see the long abandoned garden. The vines overran the rose field. The plains unweeded, strewn with flower corpses. The well he built for her had ran dry long ago, and now it stood, a bare bone husk of its old self. There was nothing but memory here, that... and regret. Things that stayed underground should never be unearthed to the light of day. Wasn't that what his kinsmen of Gondolin, the great elves of the First Age, once said to the now-and-then over-ambitious dwarves?

He left, quietly, swiftly, sunlight beating on his back as he retreated.

He passed by Gandalf as he came back. The wizard stood before the opened gate of his morn hall, back to the morning hubbub steadily rising inside.

"That was something you haven't done in about five hundred years." Said the wizard, puffing inquisitively from his pipe.

"Five hundred and eight years." Elrond parried, not missing a beat. "And nine days." He paused, eyeing the morning hubbub steadily rising inside the hall. His first instinct was to go for his seneschal to start the exodus of the day, Westward to the sea, as every morning in the last five hundred years, his people leaving Middle Earth, one by one. Then he remembered. Of course, there was no more journey to the land across the sea. He had called that off last night, halted everything with one curt order thrown at Lindir. Gandalf had made his point. There would be no passage to Valinor, not while the magi threat stood unresolved. As he stood there, mulling over the first harbinger of the changes to come, a vision of the seneschal's startled face came to his mind. Incomprehension first. Elves did not react favorably to abrupt changes. A flash of disbelief, gone in a second. His sons might be infamous jokesters and Elrond himself favored a laugh now and then, but Lindir knew better to think he'd joke about something like this. Then, at last, a deep, inquisitive disquiet. A silent and slow-growing kind of dread that would eventually give way to panic if not attended to. Elrond knew it well, this same dread that also beat its wings in his heart. His seneschal hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for him to rescind his order or to at least give an explanation. He bowled when it became apparent that no such was forthcoming, then left.

Prim and proper Lindir, caught off guard. But there he did it. He didn't need to have Lady Galadriel's mind reading to know the exact questions jumbling around the seneschal's head right now.

What happened? He imagined his seneschal would have pelted him with this first opening salvo if he weren't such sticker for etiquettes. What could have happened that would halt the elf's journey to the shining land beyond the sea? The very one that did not stop, would not stop, for the eminent war of the Ring. What new peril had arisen that did what others before it could not?

Ah, and then he would think. Lindir was, after all, present in the council of the Ring but yesterday, and bore witness to the rock... the memory shard... entrance before the council. And from then, even Elrond's least mentally gifted subject would be able to connect the dot and make out the picture, however unclear it might be.

He stopped before the door to his mornhall, put his hand on it, pushed it opened, and walked in, Ganfalf following close behind him. The noise below dimmed as he made his way through. The hall was crowded. It was but breaths away from the peak of dawn and the shadow of the sun poured in honey and gold through his hall, interconnecting with the dark casts of marble columns, bringing to light all those that stood within. There were more elves here today than usual..

He did not even pause to think. Too apparent. There were less elves on the road to the Grey Haven today than usual. There were no elves on the road today, period. They stood here in his hall, bewildered, seeking answers.

They hailed good morn and bowed to him as he passed. He heard the reluctance and the questions in their voice. One look at this crowd and it became clear that Rivendell was in a state of flux. The elves were undecided. They sensed something had changed. Something so great not even immortal elves were spared the shock of its onslaught.

No. Not a shock, simply the first ripple, a premonition of what was to come, a speck of disruption that signified the beginning of a great wave that would crash upon their shore. Elrond thought of the sea, of the deep inscrutable depth, of Ulmo whose waves wear down sand and stones, who cast fear in the heart of the Dark Lord himself. He had heard stories of those great waves that bore down the shore and swallowed whole all in their path. This, without a doubt, was one such wave, and it was only in its first ascent from the fathomless depth of the Shadow Land. The elves had felt nothing yet but the first caress that hailed its inevitable coming.

Unbiddenly, he thought of the maker of the stone, the black-hair woman who sent her lover to his death without flinching once, without even looking back. His finger where Vilya sat upon stung something horrible. He could see, clear as day, as if he was still standing in her mirage, the look in her eyes, and the terrible, absolutely immovable will that powered magic strong enough to subdue the greatest of the Elven Three behind it. She was the wave that rose from the dark blue depth and, as much as he'd like to deny it, would deny with utmost vehemency before any audience but his own, he dreaded the moment he would have to stand before her and make the choice.

...to kill or to spare...

… and await as she crashed down on him and swallowed him whole.

He passed the hall and came upon the heart of the chamber. An elf maiden came before him, curtsying prettily as she presented a tray full of dishes on it. Breakfast. Hot from Rivendell kitchen and smelling clear, crisp, and sweet as a child's breaths. Elrond was in no mood for breakfast. He passed her with the barest thank and dismissal, heading for the elf sitting at a table well behind. Erestor. Elrond's shadow engulfed him as he drew near.

"Summon the Council." He said succinctly, fingers twisting around his aching index, around the ring. "And let the news from the East be heard."

* * *

Elrond was not the bearer of bad news. Such was not in his duty, nor in his power of persuasion to do. He sat to the side, quietly observing as Gandalf chaired the Council of the Ring (and the Shard, he had to remind himself of that) in the cold morning. He stoked the fire at the back of the auditorium where they held attendance whenever the flame ebbed and whimpered. The menial task soothed his agitated mind.

He watched as Gandalf first presented the Shard to the Council. He watched again as humans, hobbits, and dwarves reared back in fear and recognition and his people recoiled from its sight, and kept watching, silently, unmoving, when Aragorn defended Gandalf from his protesting audience, watched even more as Gandalf held forth the Blue Wizard's letter and read it to a room of attentive ears.

He was growing calmer by the second. The act of simply watching someone other than himself handling it put him at a distance. He found safety in this distance, found room to breath, and space to think. He felt the touch of the Shard left him, and only when the last of its tendrils withdrew from him did he realize the hold it had on him. She despaired. She raged. She begged and wallowed and reasoned and enticed and hoped and desponded. The Shard placed a seed of her, a tiny larvae child form not yet even passed germination, a ghost more like, within him and there she slept, incubated in his chest, until her ghost passed and she fled from him, and he was free from feeling her pain and her anger.

Elrond awoke to the shouts of argument, eyes open and standing up right. He heaved out a breath, feeling light-headed and hazy as her presence left him. The sounds of arguments spiked, drawing his attention.

"How do we even know this letter is the genuine article? What guarantees it is not forgery of the enemy, hmm? And this rock... this thing... we all saw what it did to lord Elrond..." Boromir snarled, gesturing wildly at him. "What's not to say that we aren't all already in its thrall?"

"Think of who you question, Boromir. The very wizard who stands between you and this Shard's power... and the only one that would help us against the no-longer White one." Aragorn parried.

"Who are we to assume the will of wizards?" Boromir looked between Gandalf and the rest of the council, eyes shifting as his voice thinned and threaded. "The mind of wizards are always unknown. Hasn't one of the five, in fact the greatest of them all, already defected to the enemy? How are we to know..."

"We do not speak his name here, Gondorian!" That came from within the delegate of Grey Haven, accompanied by Sindarin trumpets of warning and disagreement.

"... You have to admit. It's terribly convenient, isn't it? What else have we got aside from this one simple letter and his own testimony to go with? A race of... of... black Istari... out of nowhere who are now imprisoned and exploited by the Dark Lord. How can I believe in such... outrageous... rumors with so little proof? Could this have been a trap from the Dark Lord? Dastardly, ye, but simple isn't it? And far more believable. How are we to know that _he_ himself isn't already in its snare? That his mind isn't already Sauron's? And is now trying to wind us into the Dark Lord's trap?"

That went too far. The moment the accusation escaped his mouth, Boromir sensed he'd made a grave mistake. A great hush descended on the Council, a precipice for the storm to come.

In the next heartbeat, three things happen as once. The Lindonian elves and Aragorn sprang from their seats, Aragorn with his hand on his sword hilt. Borormir reared back, his own hand reaching for his shield. Gandalf bellowed, trying to reign in the elves and one ranger.

While this was happening, Elrond still had his hand around the handle of the stoker. In one swift, clean move, he drew it from within the fire, took three steps into the heart of the soon-to-ensue fight between the Gondorian delegation and elves, and whipped an uppercut riposte inches away from Borormir. The burning coals flew from the end of his stoker and landed in a display of popping fireballs on the floor. That quickly put an end to the fight.

"Gentlemen..." Elrond forced the word out his clenched teeth, eyes going from the humans to the elves and one wizard caught in the middle. "... I did not invite you here to this Council only to let you behave like barbarians. If we disagree, I trust that there are more civilized ways to settle our disputes."

His own people were the first to stand down, always quick to remind themselves of their sense of dignity. The wizard went with them. Elrond studied the face of the Stewart's son. He stood there in front of his fellow Gondorians, half shielding them from Elrond, half trying to hide the multitudes of expressions on his face. Uncertainty for sure, clear in the reluctant movements of his eyes. Self-righteousness that lighted his cheeks in a burning glow. Embarassed, but also determined to let his own arguments be heard. Opinionated... but not unreasonable... not entirely. Besides, Boromir and his Gondorians couldn't be the only voice of doubts in this Council. It was, after all, a valid question regardless of how crude it was raised. It was best for him to address their worries now, whether voiced or not.

"Son of Gondor..." He started, drawing Boromir's attention. "You and your men were the ones who brought this Shard to us, weren't you?" Boromir hesitated for a moment, but conceded in the end.

"Yes... we were..."

"Then shouldn't you be the greater suspect? After all, you were the one who held onto the Shard for nearly a year, while Mithrandir has only been in its presence for a day." He held up a hand as Boromir made to argue. He did not need another dogged verbal fight with angry Gondorians. "But we are not here to make petty accusations against each other. You came to us seeking counsel, and counsel I will give. Get back to your seats and listen well."

They did as he commanded, with great reluctance. When he was the only one left standing in the auditorium, Elrond withdrew Vilya from his own finger and held it in front of the dwarves.

"Tell me, master dwarf, do you recognize this ring?"

From within the dwarven delegation, Gloin, the acting voice of Dain came through. He took one look at the ring in Elron's hand, squinting his beady little eyes, before giving his verdict.

"This must be none other than Vilya, for I knew not of any other ring worn by the lord of Rivendell. But... how strange, I would have thought it would be..." The dwarf hesitated here and a look passed on his face that made all too clear that he was tripping over the next word for fear of insulting his host.

"Grander?" Elrond offered, not at all offended.

"Something of that effect, yes."

"It used to be. It is half of what it was now." He walked a circle, bearing the ring for the rest of the Council to see. "Take a good long look. This is Vilya, greatest of the Elven Three, forged by Sauron himself in his bid to seduce the elves. With it, I was able to protect my household against the eyes of the enemy for years of thousands. It gave its life to protect me against the assault of the Shard. It is little more than a simple bauble woven in ordinary enchantments now. Does that not prove the Shard's power? And the power of its creator?"

"That proves nothing. We've always known the rock was... dangerous. If Sauron can create the One Ring, I have little doubt he can create something of this Shard's like. And for someone pleading for help, if the wizard's story can be believed, shouldn't their message be less... deadly?"

"The Shard was meant for a full-blooded Maiar... of which I am not. The danger was for me to bear alone. And I beg the question as to why he'd do that? Tell me, how does the Dark Lord profit from making this Shard and sending it here? For the purpose of diminishing Vilya's power? The very ring he created himself in his effort to control the elves? Or is it to launch an unsuccessful and ultimately useless attack against the bearers of the rings? For the two who responded to the Shard's call yesterday, I and Gandalf, are both ring bearers."

Boromir stuttered, unable to respond.

"I will tell you something you don't know, son of Gondor. Before the War of the Last Alliance, none of us ring bearers dared wield our own rings for fear of being corrupted." He turned at this, directing his gaze at Frodo Baggins and the ring that lied in his pocket. "One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them." The halfling recoiled from his gaze. "No truer words have come from Sauron." He looked back at Boromir, whose face had turned ashen. "We suspected foul play when he came to us bearing gifts and a beautiful face. During the war, we hid them and turned ourselves from them. If we had not done that, we would have counted ourselves among the ranks of the Nazgul by now. Only afterward, when we knew for sure Sauron had been vanquished did we allow their power to tempt us once more. And their power is great, indeed. Useful, wouldn't you agree Boromir, to have a ring of power in your hand?"

"But now that Sauron is raising again, the danger returns." Said Gandalf, his hand around his own ring, Narya.

"Yes, it does. Now that he returns, the Three may find themselves under lock and key again." He made a show of putting Vilya, not back on his finger, but in his pocket. "Though I have no doubt they will eventually find themselves in less-guarded hands... as their greater brethren, the One Ring, did. It is only a matter of time. So you see, Boromir, the Dark Lord does not profit from damaging Vilya... and its bearer. Not yet anyway. The more powerful Sauron grows, the more fearsome the ring's corruption will be. It is far better for him to let them be as they are, dragon eggs waiting to hatch within his enemy's ranks. It is not Sauron who created this Shard. The Shard's creator is someone else, someone with power strong enough to contend with Sauron's own."

He paused here, letting it sink in. In the subsequent quiet, he observed the minute fluctuations on the Council member's faces. He felt their doubt, their disbelief rose and fell.

"It is flimsy conjecture at best." The Gondorian offered after a full minute of silence. Though he had not yet committed to the idea, his dissenting voice had lost its edge.

"Flimsy it is. But I too have something to report." Aragorn cut in before Elrond could reply. "On the way to Rivendell, I escorted the ring bearer." He nodded at Frodo Baggins. "We were pursued by ringwraiths. Frodo was wounded. In my haste to bring him to Rivendell, I never reported an oddity in our pursue. I nearly missed it myself, but..." He paused here, then said the next few words slowly, carefully, turning in his seat to look at the members of the Council.

"There were only five ringwraiths after us. There should have been nine."

An uncomprehending quiet followed, then a deep, whispery sound of indrawn breath as they all came to an understanding.

"He could have kept some of them back." Offered one of the dwarves.

"Kept them back for what?" Erestor questioned. "For defense? He doesn't need that. Gondor is pushed back day by day. The land itself turns against us. The Ring and he are one and as long as they are separated, Sauron's power is kept in check. What task could be more important to Sauron than the regaining of the One Ring? For all intents and purposes, he should have unleashed the full might of the ringwraiths on the ring bearer. But he didn't. Why?"

"Because he couldn't." said Galdor of the Grey Haven., continuing Erestor's line of thoughts. "What could be more important to Sauron than the regaining of the One Ring? None. But there could be one of equal importance. The subjugation of the Champion of the Magi. If the Blue Wizard's tale is to be believed, then he needs the aids of the ringwraiths to keep her in check... or risk a magi coup within his own domain. Diminished as he is, the Magi Champion stands a chance of triumphing over him. He couldn't keep all of the ringwraiths for he needed the Ring back with him as much as he needed to keep the Magi Champion under control. So he sent the Five after the Ring, and kept the Four around the Champion."

"Say it is true that whatever we have here is really a trap of Sauron's making..." Elrond continued. "... then it is a poor trap at best and a self-defeating one at worst. Tell me, son of Gondor, in the event that his ploy succeeds, what has Elrond achieved other than to force another alliance between men and elves... and quite possibly..." He glanced at Dain's representative as he said this. "... dwarves."

"I... what?" Flabbergasted expressions on the other Council member's faces said Boromir wasn't the only one stumped by his statement. He turned and addressed the whole council.

"No Rivendell elves will leave for the Grey Haven until this magi threat is satisfactorily resolved." He let not an inch of his own doubt and insecurity leak into his voice. Now was not the time to show such weaknesses to a people already shaken by the strange, the new, and the uncertain. Now was the time to show resolution and the promise of direction. "Think, my good people. Not even Valinor will stand before the might of an army of Black Istari... of which one is sure to come if we sit back and do nothing. Men, elves, dwarves. We unite or we die." He looked Boromir in the eye, daring the Gondorian to protest. No, he wouldn't. Gondor needed whatever aids it can get. The time of the proud and powerful children of Elros had long since past and what now sat before him was but a shade of former glories.

"Surely you jest..."

"I don't, Galdor of Grey Haven. A mere magi may not stand before the wrath of heaven, but they may yet multiply their number while each Valar to be felled by their sorcery is one forever gone." Truly, he did not even know whether it is possible to kill one of the Ainur, but he wasn't willing to take the chance. "As Gandalf said, their magic is neither stronger nor weaker than that of the Maiar. However, it is one that is unbound by all rules of Arda. Would you wager in on Sauron not taking advantage of that?" Galdor went quiet, his face pale and bloodless. "I didn't think so."

"Tis true." Erestor contributed. "The magi is hardly blindsided as the drakes of Angband did, who required years in thousands to breed and to fully mature into power. If Morgoth had an army of their likes, the War of Wraths would have been a very different one indeed."

"It is true then..." Gloin of the dwarves muttered. "... what the Blue Wizard said. It is true." Not a one contested his statement, not even those of Gondor this time.

"Well, that's swell and good to know. But what does that mean to us?" Gloin's son, Gimli, joined in. "Pardon me, master elf, bus wasn't this Council summoned for the purpose of deciding what to do with the One Ring?"

A deep, unsettling quiet settled in following Gimli's question. Of course, the One Ring. The original queen on the chessboard. There was some scuffle when a little hobbit hopped down from his seat, walked to the center of the room, pulled a tiny cloth bundle out his breast pocket, and, with extreme caution, let the One Ring slide out from it. The ring landed on the plain stone pedestal at the center of the room with a crisp, cold _cling_, all eyes in the room followed its trajectory as it fell. Gandalf rose from his own seat, and, mirroring Frodo's action, let fall the Shard from his own pocket so that both artifacts of power lied side by side.

The air of the auditorium was cold and heavy with contemplation.

"He sends the Five, and keeps the Four." Said Galdor, repeating what he'd said, breaking the reverie. "For he needs her under his will as he needs the Ring by his side."

"A board of two queens means peril for the white king." Erestor commented, cementing on the fact that the odds were stacked against them.

"Whatever shall we do then?" said Boromir. "We hardly even know what to do with the Ring."

That summoned a storm of questions and queries. Elrond held out a hand, momentarily dimming the discussion. "We may not yet know what to do with the Shard and the fate of its creator..." for they knew next to nothing of them. The Blue Wizard had said the East did not possess the strength to make the choice. In Elrond's personal opinion, he wasn't even sure if the combined power of elves, men, and dwarves in the West was up to the task. "... but we know what we shall do with the Ring. The Ring must be destroyed."

Surprisingly, there was no dissenting voice from the humans. Perhaps seeing _two_ artifacts of great power and being under the influence of one of them had put things in perspective for them.

"It cannot be destroyed by any crafts we here possess." He beat a hasty resume as he saw Gimli about to rise from his seat with his axe in hand. "The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this."

"... that is folly." Boromir responded after a full minute of silence. "One does not simply walk into Mordor." But the voice that escaped from him was weak and weary and his dissension blunt to the edge of Elrond's arguments. It could have been worse, but the appearance and influence of the Magi's Shard made it plenty clear for those of Gondor the inevitability of their course of action.

"Yet it is what we must do. The danger we face is now multiplied tenfold by the addition of the magi. We act now or we die. It is as simple as that." He saw that he had the attention and obedience of the Council members now. The Ring was a surprise, but an expected one. The Shard was not. It was a complete unknown to all who stood in this Council and as usual, confronted by the unknown, the Council chose to follow the single voice that promised direction. His voice.

"One of you must do this." He repeated as he turned and directed his gaze at Frodo Baggins. Another Baggins in his house, another who bore the One Ring with better tenacity than beings far greater than them. he had foreseen the course of this one hobbit, and it was inevitable.

"I will do it." Came the reply from the hobbit, weak and timid, but growing in strength. "I will do it." He repeated to a waiting Council.

"Very well." Elrond said simply. "And as to the Shard..." He carried on without preambles, not giving others any chance to interrupt. He needed to see this through before he let them descend to arguments over the small details again. "... others need to hear its message and the message of the Blue Wizards from the East. Lords and Ladies of the realms, our allies against the enemy. Even more needed to be persuaded of the authenticity of this message." He paused here, observing the Council. He could see that none of them disagree with the wisdom of spreading this one message to all who needed to hear it.

"The Shard and the Blue Wizard's letter must be taken to the rulers of other realms. I will be the one who do this." He said simply, and listened as uproaring noises of pandemonium exploded in the auditorium.

* * *

**End Chapter 3**

* * *

Happy New Year, everyone. My resolution for this year is: to pay more attention to Cognates of Heaven. Oh, also, to buy my first house now that I have saved up enough money for it.

1/ Elrond is a right bastard to write, what with all the purple prose speeches going on. I will be very happy when the story switch to Hawke's more down-to-Earth grim and gritty style.

2/ The historical points in this chapter allude to Morgoth/Melkor's time and his War of Wrath with the host of Valinor. In case you didn't know, Morgoth bred fire drakes/dragons as elite creatures in his army against the Valar army. It nearly worked to as Ancalagon, the greatest dragon, was said to be large enough to blot out the sun with his outstretched wings even from afar. Morgoth's plan failed for the simple reason that dragons breed and mature too slowly to be used in a widespread fashion against the Valar, men and elves. In this story, Sauron attempts the same maneuver. The magi are very similar to dragons in terms of power, the only difference being: they breed a hell lot faster than the dragons of Angband did.

3/ Sorry for any typos, grammatical mistakes. This story is un-betaed and written by a non-native speaker/writer.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Cognates of Heaven**_

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Dragon Age, LOTR, the Silmarillions, the Unfinished Tales, and other published and un-published works of Tolkien. Also, many thanks to the essays of the Silmarillion Writer's Guild and the essay Warm Beds Are Good for giving me a better understanding of Tolkien's works.

**Chapter 4:**** Blood Song**

* * *

Something touched Hawke in the side. No. Someone. The mind of someone, heavy and wary. It was an old mind, brave enough to touch her, but cautious enough to do so with only the tendrils of its thoughts. As soon as the contact was made, it withdrew. Recoiled. Whoever that was, he or she was unused to the burden of mental connection with the like of Hawke.

It was the merest of touch, ensuing in the split of a second. Still, the damage was done. From within the all-encompassing blankness of her dream prison, Hawke rose, floating up and up until her eyes opened and she was awake.

Someone shrieked. Something dropped on the floor. Clanging sounds pierced her ears and ricocheted all over in her head. What a way to wake up.

She sat up, blinked. She felt groggy and dizzy all over. Her body hurt. Aching muscles. Sleep fatigue. The tangy, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, overflown, dribbled down her chin. She swallowed. More blood to a bloodmage. The pain in her body vanished immediately. Only the one in her head remained. The absence of Sauron pressing down on her mind was a staggering one. Hawke struggled to regain her balance. A few minutes went pass as she dry-heaved. When she looked up, she saw the source of that first shriek. She was in a room, the very room below the 'eye', and on the other side of the chamber, not very far away, a woman hobbled. A human woman.

Hawke can taste her fear. She reeked of fear, as if she was a piece of cloth soaked with liquid fear to the fibre. Her dark brown skin was ashen and wrinkled with age, like a patch of old leather that had seen sun, and rain, and windflow for decades, and her eyes pinpricks of dark burning coals.

Easterling. Came a whisper in Hawke's mind, drawing from the rudimentary images left over by Morinehtar. The woman was of Easterling blood, one among the slave races of Sauron. Hawke's eyes went down. There was an upended tray at the woman's feet, and a mess of pots, bottles, water and gauzes.

_What happened?_ Came the question. _Someone touched the Shard. Someone saw her memories. Someone made contact_. The answer jolted her brain awake. Her pleas were heard, but by whom, and to what end?

For a moment, she sat there on a slab of black granite, naked and shivering, and terribly lost. What was she to do? She felt out her magic. They were there, but locked away, stuck under the weight of the ringwraith's powers. She knew those creature's name now. Sauron's generals. Sauron who was a shade of his former glory. If there was one good thing of her people's entry into this world, it was that they never came when Sauron was at the peak of his power.

But he was close . So very close to becoming what he was. Distantly, she felt the turning of his eye as it directed its gaze from the white city to her. He knew she was awake.

Once again, the question came. Now that she was momentarily free from the dream prison. What to do? What chance she had she had used up. Morinehtar was dead. No one else here but her and her wretched flock. The plea was sent. The plea was heard. How long ago was that? Time had no meaning in this place. No one here observed its passage.

Hawke flexed her hands, her strong, flawless hands. Her pale, gleaming skin, plump and bloated. She had been well-cared for. Hawke looked up at the woman on the floor, who was softly crying now.

"Who are you?" She asked.

Her question was for naught. There was no recognition in the woman's face, who was murmuring something in her nasal mothertongue.

"_**Kush je ti?"**_

That was the first time Hawke attempted the Black Speech. The words came from her mouth slow and rumbling, like the slithers of snakes on brittle dry leaves, like a thousand snakes hissing to roaring thunders. Magic, dark and primal and hungry, from the language itself. The sound was different from that of Sauron, but the soul was the same. The torchlight dimmed, dancing shadows on the wall. The Easterling woman squealed and shrunk into herself.

Whatever patience she had was gone, Hawke rose from the granite slab, wobbling on her legs. Then she stamped her right foot. Atrophy from months asleep had left her body frail and weak, but the force that answered her call was anything but. Her magic buckled in the ringwraith's hold. Black marble ground shattered under her foot. Gravity formed, reached out its invisible hands. And just like that, the Easterling woman was snapped forward towards Hawke like a ragdoll helpless against the pull of a hurricane. She came crashing into Hawke's waiting arms, a shivering, sobbing mess spewing strings of what must be prayers in a language only she knew, to a god only she bowed to.

"**Kussshhhh Jeeee Tiiii?"** Hawke repeated, locking eyes with her. The woman squealed and cried in response. She didn't understand a word Hawke said. She didn't understand now and she didn't understand then. She spoke not a word of the language of Sauron. But Hawke didn't need her to. Where her hands gripped the woman's arms, the nails drew blood. A connection was made. One in the flesh. She closed her eyes, and followed the blood into the woman's mind.

_Her name was Omanathinkal. Omanathinkal Thirunal. And she was the blood of Bor. Bor who answered Maedhros the Elven's call to war against the Great Dark. Bor whose children were slaughtered in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Bor whose blood flowed in trickles and swallowed by those of Ulfang the Treacherous, Ulfang whose sons betrayed the elves to the Great Dark. Bor, whose name now she bore in fear, and shame, and reverence, and pride, and bitterness. _

Hawke staggered. The link between their minds was an almost unbearable pressure on her weakened body.

"Oman..." She said and the woman went still. Omanathinkal Thirunal stared at Hawke, her eyes like dark, wet stones. She had stopped sobbing. "Oma... Your name... is Oma." The connection ebbed and pulsed. Hawke came under.

_She was fifteen when she was sold to her husband's family. She bore him five sons and two daughters. No. Six. Six daughters. But four died. It was a harsh land, especially on young girl enfants. He treated her well, as well as any woman of the Wainriders could expect. Fed, and protected, but not much else. She remembered the bodies of her babies, soft, and warm, and pliant, and melding to her breasts for so long they left their own imprints on her. Baby-shaped welts only she can see. She heard the scent of their skin, their hair, their childish squeals as she held them. Like little warm stones on the river banks, smelling of water and sun and fresh grass. Like new butter, like bread soggy with hot milk. She lived in their breaths, in the shine of their yet uncomprehending eyes. _

_The last babe left her breasts the same time his father came back from the Dark One's call. He came back in a sack, in five separate pieces. He went with valor, they said. They gave her his wain, and bid her adieu. _

_The Wainriders did not eat their own._

_But what was she to do with a hungry wain and four hungry children? Her three grown sons were long gone. Off to serve the Dark One, as all Wainrider boys ought to. She did not remember much, the time afterward. Wainrider mothers had songs about this, of days of hardship and working mouth to bottle. Reality. It was not nearly as poetic and beautiful as they made it out to be in songs and verses. She sold the wain. She would like to bring a knife to it. Meat and lard for the winter, and fur cloaks for her fatherless children. But her kitchen knife against a war wain's jagged teeth? Better not entertain the thought. The coins lasted for a winter. Afterward, they lingered, like hopeless wasps against the pull of the unforgiving squall. Eventually, she herself answered the Dark One's call, for bread, for foods, for a future for her children. _

_The light does not reach where the wains tread, the elves of old once said, _

_Omanathinkal Thirunal did not decry them their likening. _

_The Dark One's army may be made of shadows, teeth and steel, but they ate just like anyone else. And those who ate needed those who cooked. She served for maybe two moons, maybe three. Where she stayed now the Great Eye plotted out the sun and the moon. Eventually, it came to her to take care of the Lesser Dark._

_Lesser Dark._

_It was a deceptive name, for she was no less powerful and fearsome than the Dark One. She had simply lost, in the greater scheme of things, in a battle in which orcs and trolls died by the hundred thousands, died like little flies, like ants stamped underfoot, to one who was so great sun and moon bowed to him. Like the great mountain was lesser than the earth it stood on. To the likes of her, Snaga they called, Oma was as an ant scurrying about under the rocks of the mountain foot. _

_No one knew where the Lesser Dark came from. No one knew what the Lesser Dark wanted, and how she came to be jailed under the Dark One's watchful eye. She must have committed great grievances for her to be cast down under him. But instead of destroying her, he preserved her. None was allowed within five levels of the high chamber where she stayed. None except for the Wraith Lords and one... one single caretaker... who would never be orcs or trolls or men. … only women. Aside from the Wraiths, only women of the Wainriders, of the Variags ever were allowed to attend to the Dark Lady. _

_The Dark One wanted none of their filthy fingers on her. He protected her, in a sense, from the crude and brutal care of the Orcs. She alone was reserved this treatment. Her kind, Oma had seen them, the magika, men and women of unimaginable power but never the less dwelled within simple mortal flesh, were not offered this same tenderness. _

_A lover's spat between the mountain and the earth must seem like the rumbling of quakes to the likes of her, Oma supposed. _

_Still, she attended to her duty with the wariness of of worshippers attending to their volcano god. Attentive, simpering, but ever watchful, ever fearful... for that moment when the volcano woke, and they were but helpless wasps against her pull, for that moment when she rose from her slumber. _

Hawke came out. She opened her eyes. The room was quiet but she could hear the shrieks of the Ring Wraiths from afar. They knew she had wrung free, but this freedom would not last long. She did not have much more time until the Eye turned its full attention on her and she was brought back to the dream prison again. She tugged her hands and brought a trembling Oma up to bear.

"You will help me." Hawke said... but the words did not come from her. They came from the Easterling woman's mouth, a hoarse, nasal strings of words incomprehensible to Hawke but readily understandable to who it was meant for. The blood connection between them thinned, held. "When the time comes, you will rise from your shackles and help me and my kin. I will give you the strength to do so." Hawke said. Oma said. One voice. One mind. The blood link united them for the moment.

Blood magic. Magic that wasn't wholly magic. A hybrid of the arcane and the fleshly. The greatest magical puzzle of all. It was the only kind of magic which did not adhere to the rules normally applied to its brethrens. One did not need to be a born mage to be able to wield the power of blood. It was a discipline unto itself, a power detached from all other sources of magical energy. That which ran readily within one's vein. That which did not obey the templar's tyrannical rule. That which Sauron knew nothing about and comprehended nothing about... for the simple fact that he possessed no intrinsic physical shell to call his own, and so could not understand the power that came from mortals.

One which Hawke was about to give to this woman, simply because it was the only 'tampering' she was sure Sauron would not see.

"For I know your heart." Oma hitched a breath, her heart pounding, quivering in its ribcage. A thin tendril of blood appeared from her mouth, overflowed, dripped down to her chin. The blood that flew in Oma's veins surged to Hawke's call, simmering, boiling from within their frail fleshly container. "Your frail, petty heart that despises your own weakness, that abhors your helplessness. I will give you strength. When the time comes, you will help me. You will lead me out of here. And in return, I will give you freedom. I will give you power. I will give you the future. I will give you... the world."

The connection pulsed, rose. The air quivered, waiting, bidding for that one final agreement, waiting for the geas to take. Hawke looked Oma in the eyes, that last delicate moment before the transcendence, then she said.

"I know your heart." Her voice came to a whisper, hot, and sweaty, and an inch away from Oma's mouth as they spoke in unison, each in their own language, their voices overlapped, intertwined, sealing the covenant. "It no longer belongs to he who you call the Dark One... for you are mine."

A breath in the silence, upward, hitching, indrawn, like the first inhale of a child fresh from the mother's womb. Then a great _wooshh _as an invisible pressure left the room. Hawke released Oma just in time for the shrieks of the Ringwraiths to reach the door of her prison. She closed her eyes, listened to the soft breathing of the blood being who she just gave birth to, and waited.

…. waited...

* * *

Elrond awoke to a buzzing room with ears wet with blood. He relaxed his fist. The Shard came rolling out of it, printing little dots of blood on the velvet of his recliner.

"My Lord!" The face of Erestor came into his vision. He pushed the Nondorian elf back, took a slow, heavy breath in. His heart calmed. The visions of the other land receded.

"I am fine." He said as he wiped the blood off his face. His hands came away red and soaking. There was a table next to the recliner, draped over with a simple white, laced cloth. He pulled the cloth off with one swift move, wrapped it around his head. The blood stemmed. Heaving, he stood up, picked up the Shard from the floor. It shone in jags of obsidian, glistening in the firelight. It had drank its share of blood. He could feel its power renewed.

"How was it?" That was Gandalf, standing by the door of Elrond's study. The wizard had his pipe in his mouth, and there was a thin trail of smoke coming from one end, floating all the way up to the ceiling.

Elrond frowned but decided not to comment on it. "It is as you said. It's meant for a full-blooded Maia. I could barely understand the images." He looked at his retainers, Erestor, Glorfindel, Lindir. Galdor of Grey Haven. "Perhaps it was a bad call."

"Perhaps." Glorfindel agreed. They shared a look. The lord of the House of Golden Flower made no secret of his disagreement with Elrond's decision.

"You know it is all for the best, Glorfindel. I am hardly unfamiliar with battlefields, no matter how vaunted my skill in the healing house is."

"Is it?" Glorfindel made a show of crossing his arms. "The last lord of the Nondor, whose royal line ended with the great Gil-Galad, out on scout's errand while his people stew in uncertainty. And who knows what awaits him on the roads? Drakes? Ringwraiths? The horde of Mordor? For surely if the Dark Lord knows of this... Shard... he will do anything to stop its message from reaching the peers of Middle Earth." He shot a look at Gandalf, then back at Elrond. "It is a task better suited for a warrior, not a ruler of the realm."

"Like who? Glorfindel? Like you? Who has not the blood of Maiar in your veins to awake the visions of the Shard?" Elrond parried, bringing up the Shard in question with one hand. "I would have liked for things to be different, but the fact is, there are only two of Maiar blood suitable... and available to us in all of Middle Earth right now. One..." He gestured at Gandalf "... will have to lead the Fellowship into Mordor and ensure the destruction of the Ring. It is inevitable that the other must take up the Shard and bring its message to the rest of the realm. The two tasks are of equal importance, to us and to Sauron both."

"... your sons..."

"... are not suited to navigate the currents of interstate and interspecies politics, which they will surely have to face with each peer of the realm they present the Shard to. Think you not that I have forgotten the friction between us and Mirkwood? Or our volatile relation with the kings under the mountains? Even the humans have long closed their doors to us. Think you that Thranduil would lend his ears to the princelings of Rivendell? Or that the dwarfs would let open the door to their earthen halls for two elf princes? Or that the humans would welcome them who come from a land they barely remember? No. It is the lord of the elf who must show his face, this once, or none will recognize the validity of this magi threat except for Lothlorien. They would all have their heads buried under dirt and see not this one warning for what it truly is, as the men of Gondor did, until it is too late."

He paused for breath without stopping their stare-off. "And if you think to recommend my daughter for the task, I'd have you out in the courtyard now, with your sword out."

A tense moment crawled pass. Then Glorfindel broke the gaze. He swung his stare towards the open window. "Our people are afraid." He said finally, his voice a thin, reedy note.

"That we do." Galdor of the Grey Haven cut in, patting Glorfindel's shoulders. "We elves do not adjust well to changes. Those of the Grey Harbor can attest to that. But we have no choice." He turned to Elrond. "I may not be able to invoke the Shard's visions to others but I do have the trust and willing ears of my own lord. Grey Haven is a long way from here, and your path even longer. I will set for my own home, and make sure that the warning is heard in the land beside the sea." Then he took Glorfindel by the hands, and led the other out. Erestor gave him a measuring look before following suit. He closed the door as he went.

Then it was just Elrond and one huffing-and-puffing wizard.

"So... how was it?" Gandalf asked around his pipe.

"Terrible." Replied Elrond, succinct, and to the point. He held up the blood-soaked tablecloth as if to make a point. His other hand spotted a pinkish slash line right across the palm, still glistening. "It is crude, this blood letting. But it is the only way I can wield the Shard as a full-blooded Maia." He let out a long, tired breath. "I can barely make sense of what I saw. We can rest assured that whoever I show it to will only see as much as I do. I am not confident a few blurry images and a single letter will suffice as proof to other kings and queens."

"It will get better." Gandalf promised. "You simply need time, and practice. The maker of the Shard meant for the message to be heard."

Elrond snorted, but said nothing. Part of him doubted the wizard. He strained under use of the Shard. It was a haze, every time he tried to gaze into the images... memories... encoded deep within it. His attempt at bringing others in had been... haphazardous at best. The rest of his council had begged leave, citing splitting headaches. And there, deep there, down in the spiraling depths of flashing images and coursing memories, he can feel a terrible pressure, a knowing, watching kind of pressure, as if someone was always there, beside him every time he dove in.

Could it have been the Magi Champion? If it were her, he hoped she was as friendly as the blue wizard made her out to be. He was a sitting duck in her realms. If she wanted to take over his mind, he imagined there would be little he could do in protest.

The other part of Elrond, simply couldn't care. Here was the tactician that was the herald of Gil-Galad. _Do, or do not_. It said to him. _There is no in-between, and no need to wonder._

"How of you then, Mithrandir?" He turned the table on the wizard, making a sweeping gesture at the window. "Confident in the chances of the Fellowship? Four hobbits, two humans, one an estranged king and the other a recalcitrant stewart's son, a dwarf who hates elves, an elf whose father hates dwarves... and one wizard, up against the horde of Modor. Let it be known that there has been no stranger company since Bilbo Baggins and his thirteen dwarves came into my home." The fact that such an alliance came to be was already amazing in and of itself. He could only hope the future alliance he was to make with the other races against the magi threat would be half as easy.

Gandalf merely shrugged. "We do what we must... for we have no other choice."

* * *

In the morning six days later, Elrond led his horse out the gate of his own home. An entourage followed close behind. Past the gate, they splitted up.

"Hark!" Aragorn shouted as led the Ring's Fellowship South West to the Gap of Rohan. Galdor bidded him good bye, then he himself led his people Westward back to the Grey Haven. The dwarves were already well on their way to Esgaroth, bearing not the full news but a herald of things to come to their king.

Finally, he was left alone with only Glorfindel. He turned, patted the other elf heartily. "Keep our home safe. Our people need to rearm themselves to war. Let them know the days when we can simply flee to the West is over. There is no one I can think of, who will do a better job than you."

"You should have taken Asfaloth. He would have brought you there on half of the days this horse would." Said Glorfindel, pointing to Elrond's chestnut mare. She was named Amilro, an average specimen of her species. Her coat was a nut brown all over, spangled with splotches of black and deep, thick brown around her legs. She was not known for her speed.

"She is quiet." Elrond simply said. "That's all I need for this journey." He stopped there, not pointing out the fact that Glorfindel hang bells on his horse, hardly a good thing to do on a mission meant for secrecy.

With one swift, graceful move, he was astride Amilro. He glanced back once, then forward to the open road before him. Eastward, to Mirkwood, as he had promised one concerned elf prince. Then to the reclaimed Erebor, catching up to Gloin's entourage in his one bid to involve Durin's folk in the coming war. Then followed the Great River to Lorien, and further down to Rohan's Edoras, only to finally end his journey at Minas Tirith, the front of the war... or so the plan said. What else awaited him on the road, not even his elven far sight can foresee.

The Shard lay in a pouch against his breast, chained to his neck with elven rope. He could feel its warmth through several layers of traveling clothes. It was not the warmth of rocks heated by fire, but the warmth of a human heart.

"We do what we must." He told himself. His voice carried over in the breeze, thin and soft as gauze. Then he took to the road, into the forest.

* * *

**End Chapter 4**

* * *

1/ Yesterday I walked seven miles, went home and danced crazy to Gangnam Style, then tore a calf muscle. Today I had to take a day off work and had my leg done in a cast. I just got my crutch too. What a way to end the month.

2/ Many thanks to Impstar and Northerndawn for pointing out my mistakes in chapter three: that the elves could not become Ringwraiths the same way the human kings did, only influenced by Sauron, and Gimli and Gloin's relationship.

3/ Unbetaed, and written by a non-native, so I'd really appreciate it if you can point out any mistakes or typos I might have made.

4/ A wild Hawke made an appearance in this chapter. What is your impression on her so far?

5/ What do you think happened to Oma the Easterling woman?


	5. Chapter 5

_**Cognates of Heaven**_

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Dragon Age, LOTR, the Silmarillions, the Unfinished Tales, and other published and un-published works of Tolkien. Also, many thanks to the essays of the Silmarillion Writer's Guild and the essay Warm Beds Are Good for giving me a better understanding of Tolkien's works.

_**Chapter 5:**__** From Dreams**_

* * *

_Codex Entry: The Fade_

_The study of the Fade is as old as humankind. For as long as we have existed, we have walked its twisting paths, sometimes catching a glimpse of the city at its heart. _

_The Tevinter Imperium spent fortunes trying to unveil the secrets of the Fade, to little effect. However, there is one undeniable fact that we all know. The Fade is where mages draw their power._

_- Dragon Age Origins - Ferelden Circle First Enchanter Irving -_

* * *

_**There is no Fade here.**_

The thought was alien to Hawke. It went against her most basic of training. The Fade was everlasting. The Fade, where her dream self walked the twisting paths every night, where the demons prowled. The Fade, the root of all mage's powers.

Yet this was the truth.

This was not the Fade. This space around her.

What she saw now as she stood there was the golden sand of the Wounded Coast, the blue waves lapping at her bare feet as she walked, and the rolling greenish brown hills that made up the famous jagged silhouette of the coast. The sea spread itself far... much, much further than the real life thing. There was only one object in the horizon. The nose end of a boat, bobbing up and down the waves. Isabella's drowned Siren.

Two days ago, this was an empty white space. Two days ago, the Memory Shard she sent out at the cost of the Blue Wizard's death came into contact with someone, and through this disruption, she was able to break free from the dream for the first time.

The sand beneath her feet undulated as Hawke propelled herself forward with only the strength of her will. She swam in the air. The world quivered around her. She was the only real thing here. This world existed on the power of her thoughts alone.

How ironic. The very prison Sauron created for her now kept him out as much as it kept her in. She was shielded from the repercussion of her break-out attempt simply by falling asleep, knowing that Sauron dared not hurt her body.

This was not the Fade. That twisting paths and labyrinthine landscape of the Fade would never let her force her will over it so easily. The demons and spirits alike that prowled its hall would come in waves at the merest hint of her power, hungry for human flesh. But none of those were here.

This realm was of Hawke's make, and she alone ruled its land.

Without warning, the end of her dream came upon her. A simple line in the sand, stretching over sea and hills. Beyond it was a great white expanse. The dream land Hawke made for herself stood on this side of the line separating her thoughts made physical and the great emptiness.

She stood there on the precipice, gazing out to the never-ending space before her. For one moment, she hesitated, unsure whether her plan would work. In the next moment, she reached out over the line and into the great emptiness. The dream world poured forward, like liquid into an empty bowl, forced by her will to break beyond the prison bars. Sea water and sand and rocks and whole hills rolling forward, falling down the open crevice beyond the dream line, filling its invisible bottom, giving shapes and colors to the place where there was none before.

There was resistance, but Hawke worked her way around and over them. It was hard without Anders. It was no secret that he was the better spirit mage, between the two of them. It showed, whenever they traipsed the paths of the Fade together. He was her teacher, her friend, and lover.

But now, Hawke would have to do without him. It helped that her power was freakishly strong in this new world, unchained by the constant need for mana and lyrium dust.

An eternity passed, or at least, what felt like an eternity. Time did not flow in this dream limbo. The sun and the moon both orbited the skies. Hawke was not yet strong enough to make them move. But that would soon change because finally, she felt something give. As if an invisible veil had been pierced, her dream collided with another dream. The sea of the Wounded Coast rushed and fought with the incoming waves of Lake Calenhad. A tower rose from the deep like a magical beanstalk. The glorious morning skies of Hawke blended with the deep cobalt blue of night skies above Kinloch Hold, otherwise known as the Circle Tower, home of Ferelden Circle of Magi.

Among those who followed her, many counted themselves among Kinloch Hold past residents, it being the very first Circle to be granted autonomy via the Hero of Ferelden's request. But few of them truly held Kinloch dear to their heart. There were, but two, that Hawke knew, who viewed this tower not as a prison but as home and safety, and had the power of mind to erect it whole and pristine in their own dream world.

The two foremost among among Ferelden Circle mages: First enchanter Irving, and Archmage Wynne.

Hawke stood upon the precipice that divided her dream and the other dream, unwilling to intrude into what was the most private place of either one of her two most powerful and dearest friends. Instead, she projected a ghost of her mind into the other dream, an echo of her will, with just enough power to signal to the owner of this dream Kinloch that someone had come knocking on the door.

From the tendrils of her arching mind, she sensed another out there, in the tower, a deeply feminine consciousness sleeping in the heart of her own dream.

Wynne. She supposed she couldn't call what she felt then as surprise. The Archmage and Spirit Healer made no secret of her love for the Circle Tower.

Hawke can hear the sound of the lake crashing onto shore, a deep, event rhythm, like the breaths of a sleeping mind. The tower loomed above the lake, dark and quiet. Mere stones without life.

"Wake up..." She called, her words carried in echoing whispers above the waves of Lake Calenhad and deep into the heart of Wynne's dream. "... my friend, my sister, wake up. The time has come." Her whispers broke the waves. From the windows of the Circle Tower, came light.

* * *

The initial plan was for Elrond to cross the secret elven path beneath the Misty Mountain and bring the news immediately to Lothlorien, the greatest city left to the elves this side of the sea, and to the greatest elven minds to walk this land, the lady and her husband. But one elf prince's plea changed that.

"My land is besieged in darkness." Said the prince of Mirkwood. "It was once known as Greenwood. Now my people cannot even walk the forest unarmed. Whatever new power the Dark Lord has at his beck and call, I cannot help but feel it is my home that will be the first to taste it. I beg of you, let the warning be sent to my home first, for it is the most vulnerable of all elven kingdoms."

Sound logic that he couldn't deny. Lothlorien enjoyed the protection of Galadriel and Nenya. Thranduil's palace under the mountain enjoyed no such thing. And so Lothlorien changed to Mirkwood. It took Elrond four days to cross the path of Ettenmoore and over the mountain range. From there, he rode upriver, towards Framsburg under the shadow of the Grey Mountain. Over the great river Alduin was Mirkwood, the dark forest. He only needed to cross the water at its thinnest and shallowest to enter it, but Mirkwood did not gain its name for nothing. The paths that went through the forest were treacherous ones, even to the Silvari forest elves, and the Old Forest Road, once thickly traversed by dwarf merchants now lay abandoned. Instead, he followed the river to the fork just before Framsburg, then crossed the field to a smaller branch of the Alduin and followed it into the forest.

This smaller river did not have a name, except Forest River, for it was the only one to cross the shadow of Mirkwood. The home of Thranduil Oropherion lied at its tail end. Once, when Mirkwood was not known as Taur nu Fuin, the Forest of Fear, but Greenwood the Great, Thranduil and his people lived in a much brighter place in the heart of the forest.

For three days, he travelled unaccosted, a great surprise, for even in the faraway halls of Rivendell he had heard of the troubling reports of orcs and Shelobspawns that populated this part of the forest. In the fourth day, he slept the night away in the shade of an old oak tree steps away from the river bed, only to wake up to the sound of the Shard humming, thumping to the beat of his heart. Amilro the mare stood a good distance away, with her rope pulled taut, staring warily at the black Shard in his hand.

From there on, it wasn't hard to formulate the theory that the Shard... and its creator... had something to do with his so-far unmolested journey.

He set on forward on the fifth day morning, riding on the trail beside the river, his mind riffed with thoughts. In all his years, Elrond had never felt so unsure before. He was two days ride away from the home of an elven king who, at best, held tenuous relation with his own elven fiefdom, preparing to deliver what was to be the greatest warning and call to action since the war of the Silmarils. A warning which he himself hardly understood.

He held the Shard in his bare hand as he considered it. After the first few days, he had gotten over the initial reluctance of handling it. Lord knew he would not be allowed to show even a smidge of uncertainty in his 'presentation' of the Shard to the peers of Middle Earth.

It was warm in his hand, and if he put a mind to it, gently giving off the faintest hint of vibration. But other than that, it looked just like any other pebbles taken from the bottom of the river. And yet, despite its common appearance, neither Elrond nor Gandalf the Obfuscated knew a thing about it aside from the fact that it served as a storage for the Magi Champion's memories.

…. and that it apparently had enough power to put a dent to the strongest of the Three. Hard to accept, but there it was. He still wore Vilya on his finger, but the Ring was a shade of its former self. This was the main reason he didn't leave it with Glorfindel. It would be but a useless bauble in the hands of the elven lord. Before the Shard, Vilya served as the foremost defense of Rivendell. With it, he was able to weave cloaks around his home, hiding it from those of impure hearts. But not any more. From now on, Rivendell would have to stand on its feet, and bolster its borders.

"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing" He muttered absent-minded as he turned the little rock in his hand. He knew the Shard held secrets yet unknown to him and Gandalf, and he had little choice but to wait for the creator of the Shard to reveal them to him one by one. He just hoped it would not be too late.

In the night, he slit his palm and let his blood fall down on the Shard and watched it guzzled up by the rock. He eased his mind from its mental defense and, very slowly, very carefully, connected with the thoughts stored inside the Shard.

* * *

_It's here._

Hawked turned her head, very slightly to the left, and looked out the window to the bronze-cast skies outside where something had willed itself into her world. The dreamself of the woman she was holding stirred at the disturbance.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." Hawke coaxed her ward gently, making the air around her quiver a gentle rhythm. The chamber she was sitting in took the form of a nursery, with beds and cots strewing the ground. Initially, she had thought this dream world limit itself to only mirroring places its creators had seen before. The creation of this nursery disproved that theory of hers.

Outside of this room, the dream world she and the others had built was slowly but surely taking up shapes. She rocked the woman in her arms, singing softly to her. Wynne, who sat across her, approached and, without a word, held out a glowing hand "Sleep, Ilsa, sleep." and finally lulled 'Ilsa' back to sleep.

Hawke let out a breath, blowing air in a careful, constrained move through her nose. She let the sleeping Ilsa down slowly on the bedding underneath, taking care not to disturb her three months old belly. When she turned up, Wynne was looking her in the eye.

What was it? Those eyes seemed to ask. Wynne too had felt the disturbance.

Hawke gave a tiny shake of her head.

Not here.

Then she stood up, and walked out the door, stepping over the slumbering bodies of a dozen or so similarly pregnant women. She opened the door noiselessly. If this room were like the real world thing, the door would have creaked and cracked, as all well-used wooden doors were bound to. But this room was created from her imagination, drawn from her own idea for the nursery she once wanted to have for her and Anders's children, a place of safety, of protection. Under its creator's will, it forsook its real-world noisy demeanour for a near perfect silence.

She waited for Wynne to follow her. Outside of the nursery room was Wynne's botanic garden, right on top a secret balcony on the side of the Circle Tower. A stone bridge led away from the tower, stringing from the balcony over Lake Calenhad down beneath to connect to the hills of the Wounded Coast.

In the far horizon, deep within Hawke's dream, a strange greenish ball of light hovered near the water edge. Wynne eyed it warily.

"That's not one of ours." The Archmage decided after a full minute of contemplation, turning to Hawke. "What is it?"

"The mind of an inhabitant of this world, the very one who broke me out of my prison." Hawke replied without missing a beat.

"I... what?"

Of course, in the wake of far more urgent matters, she had neglected updating the others on their situation. Well, that could be easily corrected.

"Walk with me. I'll show you."

She led Wynne from the tower, and over the bridge. They cleared the divide separating Wynne's dream and hers in minutes. The air of her own realm washed over them in ropes of roiling sea wind. Wynne's world was far calmer, reflecting the tranquility and inner peace of her age. Hawke's world, being far younger, reflected the opposite. In the skies, a fat, round sun hung lazily, a testament to her growing power and consciousness of the waking world.

Hawke had given this world time. She moved the sun and moon.

"Have I told you why we are here?" She began.

"I thought that was apparent." Came the reply. "That... abomination..." There was a new zeal, a new weight to the word 'abomination'. Hawke had never heard that much... hatred... coming from the usually gentle Wynne before. "... trapped us here, in this dream world, while he... harvests... our bodies."

Harvest... what a word. But Hawke supposed it wasn't very far off from the truth. What else could they call it? Mage husbandry? Mage domestication? Mage breeding? Not even the most callous slaver would use such words. Yet it was the truth. While Hawke and her most powerful magi slept away, Sauron had made breeding stocks of her people. It wasn't hard to figure out why. The mages that had endured Sauron's corruption thus far was of the Covenant, the blood pact she and Anders created in an attempt to protect them from demonic and blood magic influences, Sauron's included. To make weapons of their power, he needed fresh mages, newborn mage children unbound and unprotected by the blood Covenant, soft and ready for his influence.

The thought alone made Hawke burn.

The skies overhead darkened, streaked with lightnings. The sea churned violently, reflecting the current of her thoughts. She thought of Ilsa and the pregnant women in the nursery, reduced to a state where she had to lull their mind to sleep, preserve whatever sanity was left of them, and take them away from the terror inflicted on their bodies, all so that they might have a chance at survival once the time came.

She stopped when the ground began to quake under her feet, and the air filled with rumbles of something trying to claw its ways up from the deep. Will, and mental restraint. Her father had trained her in both since her childhood, and this was not the first time she had experienced or seen cruelty. But even that did not make it any easier.

When she finally regained control of her emotions and her dream world finally turned quiet, she opened her eyes to Wynne looking at her with barely restrained worry.

"You have grown stronger." Commented the spirit healer. The trust between them was born of shared hardship and impossible situations. Wynne did not doubt her control over herself.

"This world has no veil." Hawke said simply, picking up her pace as if nothing had happened. "Nothing stops us from taking power from... I supposed I can't say the Fade either, since there's no Fade here."

"It's a strange world, but I'm not complaining." Wynne concurred. "Except for our imprisonment, I have never felt better. If we were in Thedas, I think I would have... returned to the Maker by now."

It was true. This land had a rejuvenating effect on them all. Wynne looked like she had dropped twenty years on the way here, and while Sauron tortured and besieged them mentally, he kept them relatively healthy and hale. They might only be breeding stocks to him, but they were irreplaceable, and therefore valuable. Again, she felt her blood boil in its veins. She took hold of this anger, and kept it close. She would need it, soon.

"I swear to you, Wynne. I'd do anything to get us out of here, _all of us_."

And she would. Wynne needed not say anything. They both knew the length Hawke would go to to protect her people.

"Let's go. Now that we have the time, I will tell you the whole story." She resumed her trek. She could have simply willed herself to the spot where the alien consciousness was hovering, but this was her world, and in here, Wynne could not do the same.

"We've been here for two years." She started.

"Has it truly been this long?" There was a hint of disbelief in Wynne's voice, a faraway look in her eyes. "I would... I never thought. When my body was awake, a day was as long as a century. How could two years have passed so fast?"

"Do not dwell on it. I need you with me Wynne. You are the best healer we have now, and after this, our people would need all the healing in the world. Maker knew I can't heal as much as a gash."

"Of course, Hawke..." There was a pause as Hawke let the old woman digest this. "We ran away from our world in hope of a better future, but I can't really say this world is any better than our home. The Templar may have kept us prisoners for centuries, but even they can't do what the abomination is doing to us. Do you think, perhaps, that we should never have come here?"

"Wynne!" Hawke snapped, but the old mage was unfazed.

"Have you never thought of it then? I know you have. It doesn't matter how that place mistreated us for centuries, it is still our home. We all look back, one way or another."

Hawke went quiet for a second. "I have wondered the same, yes." She said finally, looking into the far distance, past the curving coastline to the far beyond, where Kirkwall once stood in her old homeworld. Home, and hearth. A family, someone waiting for her, the promise of a child, of future and a life not spent on running away.

She stopped suddenly, looking the old mage in the eye. "I left him behind... to die... so I can take you all to a different place, to a better place. Do you not think I regret it as much as you do?" She said, her words coming out slow and heavy, the effort painful. There was no need to clarify who _'he' _was. They all knew. It felt as though she had rent herself from the inside. "I miss him so much it hurts." Her dream world went still. The wind stopped blowing. The waves stop rolling. The sun froze its descent. Colors bled out from the skies. The whole world stopped.

Wynne stopped too and something must have shown on Hawke's face, because the old mage went pale. "Hawke, I..."

"No." She cut in before the old mage could apologize. "Whatifs are no use to us now. We must go on. If we look back, we spit upon the sacrifices of those who ensured our passage here." She held out a hand, and in a flash summoned her own memories of their run across Thedas to get to the mirror gateway, and the people that died along the way. She remembered each of them. "I am tired of running. This time, I will fight. I will make my home... our home... in this world. Maker helps those who stand in my way."

Wynne had no answer this time. The archmage had gotten her point. Hawke turned away, and once again, resumed their walk towards the alien consciousness. Only one more hill to climb. This conversation was harder than she thought, but necessary. Sauron was not an enemy they could face with their heads and hearts pointing to their old homeworld.

"We will not be alone in our fight. Sauron has enemies, powerful ones."

Now that was a surprise, at least to the old mage.

"How did you know this?" Said Wynne, unable to hide the incredulousness in her voice. Hawke did not fault her. They knew nothing when they first came to this world. And Sauron, in his bodiless state appeared a dark god to them. They thought he reigned in this world and that there was nothing out there but his realm. A misguided view he had taken great pains to maintain.

But Hawke knew different. The so called Dark God was merely a spectre, not even at his full strength. He was a dangerous force, but not an invincible one. And this wasn't the first time she had had to pit herself to a force previously thought unconquerable.

"The other side contacted me." She said simply. "There is a war in this world, one that has gone on for millennia. Don't you think it's strange that someone as powerful as Sauron would need to make weapons out of our unborn children? If he were truly the reigning god of this world, why then does he need our power?"

Realization dawned on Wynne's face. There was a flicker of newfound hope in her eyes.

"Sauron's enemies are numerous and ever watchful. They found out about us."

"How did they even do it? I have never ever seen anything in this land but those monsters."

"They found out through the corrupted mages." She got right to the point. "When he found out that only the unhallowed would bend to his corruption, Sauron had already done irreparable damages to them. They were barren, and could not function on their own. They were not the beginning of the mage army he wanted, but still powerful, so he used them as shock troops to terrorize his enemies and push them back. He bolstered them so that they would last longer on the battlefield. Still, some of them fell to the other army eventually."

There was pain on Wynne's face.

"I tried, Wynne. I tried reaching out to them once they were out of Sauron's grasp on the battlefield, hoping to free them of Sauron's control, but they were not included in the Blood Covenant. They were not protected. There was so little that was human in them. I tried as hard as I could."

She watched the archmage turn her head away, go quiet for a minute. "When we first debated the necessity and rules of the Blood Covenant, I fought you. I thought I had spared the young ones from blood magic influences. I never thought... I as good as killed them, didn't I?" Wynne said finally.

"Do not let grief cripple you, Wynne. There are many who still need your help. We do not have the right to mourn right now."

"Of course, Hawke." A pause, then... "Thank you."

She nodded wordlessly, before carrying on. "There are mages on the other side too. Their power is... different... from ours. They defeated a corrupted mage and found me deep within his mind, trying to protect the last of his humanity. From there, they followed me to this prison. They knew the kind of danger we'd pose as pawns of Sauron. They couldn't simply stand aside, so they sent one of theirs, a wizard, to me. Through him, I learnt of this world as it truly is and not as Sauron would have me believe. I know then that I had to send a plea for help outside. The wizard helped me. He sacrificed his life and distracted Sauron while I created a message and sent it out."

"A plea? Do we even speak the same language?"

"We don't. The Blue Wizard, as he called himself, was gifted in mind arts. He spoke directly into my mind. But those skilled in mind arts are few in this world."

"Then the plea must be able to pass through the need for languages at all."

"It did. I created the message with my own memories. Powerful images that need no words to explain them. I infused them into a rock on the ground of my prison cell." Hawke turned to face Wynne as she said this. Such feats were only feasible through the use of blood magic. Wynne had always been the most vocal of her followers to argue against the use of blood magic. But extreme time called for extreme measures. Hawke had learned this lesson the day she saw her mother's head stitched onto a body composed of dead women parts, and given un-life through the blood of others.

This time, she saw no disapproval on the archmage's face. She smiled a little at this. It seemed she wasn't the only one changed by this world. "I used the Blue Wizard as a template and laced this rock with enchantments, to ensure that only those similar to him could understand the message and those that don't would feel an unrelenting and subconscious imperative to deliver it to those who can. I then took control of a group of dead orcs and installed a last directive in their primitive mind to deliver this rock to the closest establishment of Sauron's enemies. They were already dead, so they were best suited for the task."

Just in time, they arrived at the beach where the alien consciousness hovered. "It took one year for the rock to be delivered to one of the same blood as the Blue Wizard. This is..." The consciousness felt deeply masculine. "... he."

Shortly after finding Wynne's dreaming mind through the link created by the Blood Covenant, they had set out to find the others, awakened them, brought them into their fold, and protected them. Each and every one of Hawke's brood had come into this dream world, theirs and hers and Wynne's, fully formed as they saw themselves.

This mind, on the other hand, appeared only as a glowing wisp.

"Why does he... look like this?" Wynne observed the wisp, walking in circle around him for a better look.

"I'm not sure, but I think it is because our magic and mind is as strange to him as his is to us. Their magic is something that is... " She paused, temporarily at a loss for words. "I cannot comprehend their magic at all. It is a very strange kind of magic. I have never felt something like it before."

"Me neither." Wynne gave her conclusion. "Irving may have better chance than us. Maker knows that man has read the Circle tower library inside and out. And he's dabbled in more... esoteric magic in his youth. Magical systems and theories are right up his alley."

"Agreed." Hawke said succinctly. "He's still too weak for me to bring him out of the men's nursery now, but once his mind has recovered, I will bring him here."

With her observation of the foreign mind done, the archmage turned her attention back to Hawke, a look of guarded curiosity on her face. "What did you show them?"

"I showed them our powers. I showed them the potential destruction we are capable of. I showed them our stories, our follies that supposedly turned the Golden City black and unleashed the Blight on our homeworld, and that if need be, we would kill even gods."

There was silence between them now. Hawke held her gaze, waiting.

"I suppose it's too much to hope they'd help us out of the goodness of their hearts." The archmage said finally, her voice thin and weary.

"We are in the midst of Sauron's stronghold, which had stood its ground for millennia, through wars and disasters alike. Armies stand guard at the gate. We are prisoners of a Dark God that is growing more powerful by the second. I doubt even the most good-hearted among them would attempt this suicide task, let alone leaders responsible for the safety and welfare of their people." Hawke said simply.

"The Blue Wizard gave his life for us." Said Wynne, not as argument, as a reminder.

"And for that I am forever grateful, but even he came because he knew he could not simply let us be turned into weapons in Sauron's hand. His help is not without motive."

Wynne sighed, looking at the ball of glowing wisp. "Are you sure they won't simply send someone to kill us off? That is far easier to do and accomplish the same thing."

"I don't know. They may." Hawke answered. "They may decide to save us... or to kill us. Either way, they will still have to send someone and disrupt Sauron's hold over us. That is already a chance at freedom, and I'd take any chance right now. The only way we'll lose is if nothing happens and we are left to fight our own battle against Sauron alone. As far as I know, the power balance of this world is a delicate one. The addition of our power would not tip... but shatter it. Sauron knows this. Before my message to them, his enemies did not. Now that they've seen what we are capable of, they will not be able to stand aside and do nothing. They will have to interfere."

"I suppose that is all we can ask for, then." There was a look of acceptance on Wynne's face. "And what shall we do now, as we wait for this interference?"

"We prepare..." Said Hawke. "... for war."

* * *

**End Chapter 5**

* * *

More screen time for Hawke. What's your impression of her so far?

Now I want to write a Naruto/StarCraft crossover.


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